


Handling

by darkwood



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Act 3, F/M, Kink Meme, Post Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:57:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 56,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkwood/pseuds/darkwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From K-Meme.</p><p>Prompt Summary: </p><p>Years of avoiding physical contact have made Fenris very starved for it. Now, especially after reconciling, Fenris craves Hawke's touch. But he's ashamed and scared of this new "weakness" or of how foreign it is for him to be craving the touch of another so badly.</p><p>(Continuity update to Ch.7)<br/>Rating Update for Ch. 9.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is so much more fluid when it's up on this with appropriate chapter breaks.
> 
> Original post on K-Meme.

 

         The first time she touched Fenris, Elodie Hawke took a blow to the head for her trouble.

         It was the end of a battle, and Fenris was bleeding. Elodie touched his cheek, trying to get him to look up so she could take a look at the wound, and Fenris snapped his fist into her face.

         Bethany had shouted, and had she any mana left, Elodie was certain Fenris would have found his hair on fire. Varric, however, was not without mana. Or a temper. Bianca was not a bladed melee weapon, but the stock on the non-business end of her was strong enough to deliver quite a powerful wallop. The pair of them sported mis-matched black eyes and had been kept on the far side of the group from each other.

         ‘Broody’ had a long way to go in the eyes of the others, and that was before Blondie entered the scene to be eternal vindication for his mage-hating behavior.

         The story of that particular blow to the head spread through the little group quickly, and for a while Elodie pretended they were all daft. It couldn’t be easy on anyone to make a group introduction with ‘and he punched Hawke in the face’ tagged at the end of his name or nickname. Aveline, Elodie knew, had actually stared Fenris down about it over ale at the Hanged Man.

         It died off later, when everyone else’s stuff came out. There were greater trespasses among them, and no one could hold a punch to the head against Fenris after Isabela kicked Hawke into the middle of a spell volley, or the time Elodie was knocked out bleeding and Merril sucked some of her energy with a spell. Each of them had their trespasses, and Elodie mostly forgave them all.

         Sometimes it seemed like forgiving people was all she did.

         She forgave Fenris when he left her, she allowed him to linger without pressing him for words or anything he wasn’t willing to give. It cut her to the quick to do it, but she let him stay.

         So when it started between them again, Varric had his doubts about Fenris. Thing was, Hawke didn’t, and as Bianca was a jealous lass, there was nothing more to be said about it. Besides, Hawke told Varric, they were taking it slow this time. Eyes open, she told him.

         What she didn’t tell Varric was that when she said slow she meant standstill. Reading lessons, sparring, messy cooking lessons… she and Fenris spent hours together. The pinched look around his eyes went away when it was just the two of them, but he still held himself aloof everywhere but her bedroom.

         Hawke was starting to think that Fenris was forcing himself to be with her again. It made her feel rejected. All the words he had about spending whatever future there was together were hollow in the face of the feeling that he was forcing himself to stay with her.

         She wouldn’t do this to him.

         They were lying in bed one evening after she’d decided. Fenris never left her after sex anymore, knowing what it had done to her the last time. He was stretched out behind her, nose in the hair at the back of her head. He had one arm around her waist, fingers against her ribs, stroking slowly. His other arm was bent, and she had her head resting against it. He tended to gather her against him like this afterwards, and she let him, content in the bonelessness of afterglow.

         Most nights it was warm, and tender, and she could sink into it like there was nothing else in the world but his warm arms and a soft bed. But tonight she felt cold. She had given herself another stolen night in his arms. She knew that she would keep giving herself this sort of extension if she didn't just... do it. She closed her eyes.

         “Fenris.”

         “Yes, Hawke?” he asked. His voice was soft, and his hand stroked down her stomach slowly.

         “You don’t have to do this.”

         His hand stilled, fingers just at her navel. “… do…this…” he said slowly, as though he were trying to piece together what she meant.

         She reached up, covering his hand with hers, and he flinched. That happened more than she wanted to admit to herself. Frowning, Hawke sat up, pulling out of his arm.

         “Hawke… I-”

         “It’s fine,” she said, tugging the sheets off and getting out of bed. “But maybe you should go home.”

         “If that is what you wish,” he replied.

         Hawke didn’t comment. She stepped over to the fire, staring at it rather than looking at Fenris. He sounded confused, he sounded hurt, but the only other thing he flinched at was drinking the ale at the Hanged Man. It wasn’t to his taste.

         She was starting to think maybe she wasn’t to his taste either.


	2. Chapter 2

         Hawke avoided Fenris for days that turned into weeks. If he wanted to go, if he didn’t like being with her, it was the perfect opportunity for him to disappear. Danarius was dead, the city was a hotbed of mages acting up and templars retaliating. He couldn’t be comfortable with all the magic in the air.

         It hurt to do it, but she wouldn’t cage him. If he didn’t want to be with her, if she was forcing him to be with her and he was only staying because he felt guilty…

         A bit of pain was better than him hating her.

         She was by the fire in the library, a book that she wasn’t really reading resting on her lap and a glass of wine she was really drinking in her hand, when Bodhan hurried into the room and ended up almost getting run over by Aveline stomping into the room in her armor.

         “Ave? What is-”

         “If you and Fenris want to play out your little romance novel, that’s fine,” Aveline said, “but I don’t have the manpower to deal with him when he’s on a binge.”

         “On a binge? What do you mean?”

         “Varric said he’d not seen him for a few days, I’d assumed you had,” Aveline was frowning.

         “What’s he done?”

         “Nothing. But his neighbors are trying to get a request to the Circle to have the house exorcised. With all the noise they think it’s haunted… again.”

         “Shades aren’t technically haunting, they’re summoned, you kn-”

         “Semantics,” Aveline grumbled. “Get your armor on. We’re paying your lover a visit.”

         “Ave-”

         “That was not a request, Hawke.”

 

*

 

         It was oddly quiet as they passed the Chantry. There were no bandits or gangs out lurking, and the citizens seemed to be shying away from the end of the street that Fenris lived on. It was eerie-quiet.

         Aveline led the way to the door, and then stepped aside.

         “… Aveline?”

         “Fenris is a friend of mine, but when he’s upset he’s damn near blind,” Aveline replied. “Except when it comes to you. You know how I react to being attacked. If you want him to keep his head, you’ll let me stay out here.”

         “Good point,” Hawke said with a shrug. She pushed the door open and closed it behind her.

         The interior of the mansion was dark, but it was always dark. Fenris didn’t waste torches when he knew the way through the dark. Anyone unsure would call out, and he’d know if it was a friend or foe. Hawke had navigated the way to his room enough at all times of day that she knew it as well. She traveled it slowly now, listening.

         As she reached the landing, the smell from his room reached her. It was thick with wine – he must have been redecorating again – but there was something else. Once she reached the doorway, she saw what it was.

         Blood.

         There was broken glass all over the floor, and blood splatters. For an instant her heart clenched in fear. Had someone taken him? But then she saw him strewn across the chair she used to sit in when they had reading lessons.

         He looked pale and dirty.

         He looked like she had a week after he walked out and left her.

         “Two weeks I don’t see you and this?” she asked aloud before her brain could catch up with what her mouth was doing.

         Fenris started, jerking awake. His eyes widened as he saw her, and he extended a hand for her, half-rising from the chair. As he started to get to his feet, he winced and sat back down. He closed his hand, placing it on his knee, and looked at the fireplace, hiding his expression in his hair. “Hawke.”

         Hawke crossed the room slowly, unworried by the glass crunching under her feet. “Aveline says the neighbors think the place is haunted.”

         “It keeps the Viscount from demanding taxes,” Fenris grumbled.

         “Do you have an explanation for your behavior?”

         His head jerked around, a cold glare leveled at her. “Have you?”

         Reaching him, Hawke frowned. He really did look pale, and he was sweating. She reached out and brushed his hair from his forehead. Fenris sighed and his eyes shut as soon as her fingers brushed his skin.

         He’d never done that before. Every time she reached out to touch him, he flinched.

         Emboldened by his reaction, Hawke stroked his hairline with her fingers, letting her palm press gently against his face. Fenris leaned his face into her touch, leaning forward in his seat.

         “Fenris?” Hawke asked softly.

         He stiffened, as though he had been caught at something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. He jerked back from her hand, both hands clamping on the arms of the chair. “Yes, Hawke?”

         “What is all this?” she asked. She crouched before him, peering up at him, hoping to get a glimpse of his expression beneath the fall of his hair. “I only meant to free you if you don’t-”

         His eyes widened and he leaned forward again, both hands coming up to cradle her cheeks. “I am yours,” he said firmly.

         For a moment, Hawke thought he would kiss her, but he pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. Elodie hadn’t wanted to admit how much she’d been afraid he would leave, and hearing him say that was… She closed her eyes as well, taking a deep breath. The room smelled of wine and blood. This close to Fenris, the blood smell was stronger than the wine.

         Fenris slid his hands forward, fingers threading into her hair, and then they moved down, stroking her neck. He kissed her forehead.

         “Fenris,” Elodie said, but stopped when he jerked still. She sighed, pulling back and standing. She turned, needing to look away from him for a moment. She was going to have to ask him what the Void was-

         He shot up to his feet, moving forward as though afraid she’d leave, but he _stumbled_.

         Fenris **stumbled**.

         He never stumbled, even when he was hit. She knew, because she’d accidentally hit him more than once. So this… this was strange. She turned to look at him, and he gritted his teeth. The noise of glass underfoot as he shifted was loud in the quiet of the room.

         Elodie looked down, and knew what she’d see even before she saw it. She had been kneeling in blood. Fenris’ blood. Because Fenris didn’t wear shoes, and the room was full of broken glass. She scowled.

         “Hawke, I-”

         Rarely was Elodie proud of the strength she had that it took to wield her broadsword. Mostly she liked the weapon, and she liked winning. Now she was glad of it. Taking a step forward, she bent and grabbed Fenris’ knee, and put him across her shoulders.

         “Hawke!” Fenris barked out as she straightened up and his world turned sideways.

         “I do not want to hear it,” Elodie replied. She turned for the door, thick greaves crunching through the glass on the floor. “At all. You’re my lover, and you’re hurt, and I’m not going to have a conversation while you bleed all over the floor.”

         “This is-”

         “The only sensible thing to do,” Elodie snapped. “Stop arguing with me. We can argue when you’re not bleeding, I promise.”

 

*

 

         Aveline was confused when Hawke kicked the door open and carried Fenris out of the mansion over her shoulder like an oversized sack of potatoes. Fenris was glaring fiercely, Hawke was scowling, and all the guard captain could really do was close the mansion up behind them and follow along in case of trouble.

         Nothing caused trouble that evening. Aveline walked Hawke and Fenris back to the Amell estate and opened the door. Hawke grunted out a thank you, and disappeared inside. At that point, Aveline decided that she’d had enough of the idiot couple. She wanted to go home and see Donnic.

         So that's just what Aveline did.


	3. Chapter 3

         Elodie carried Fenris up the stairs, surprised he wasn’t struggling now that they were tucked away from view in the mansion. He seemed… well she couldn’t call him content when he was so tense, but… resigned. He was enduring this, and she was fairly certain she’d have to hear loud complaints about it later.

         Well, so be it.

         As she headed past the fireplace, Bodhan came scrambling after her, full of questions that he could only half get out.

         “Everything’s fine, Bodhan,” she assured him as she started carefully up the stairs. “But I’ll need hot water, bandages, and that case of healing potions up in my room, if you please.”

         “Of course, messere,” Bodhan said, turning towards the kitchen to take care of her request.

         Once at the top of the stairs, Elodie angled them so she could get Fenris into her room, and once there, she dumped him onto her bed.

         The impact seemed to give Fenris back his voice. “Hawke, your bed clothes will-”

         “You’re still bleeding,” Elodie replied. She dragged the chair over from her desk and planted it at the side of the bed. She unslung her sword and set it in the stand by the fireplace. “I don’t want to argue while you’re bleeding.”

         “But this-”

         “No,” Elodie said. “It’s not important right now. Right now I’m going to clean you up.” She undid her breastplate, settling it onto the armor stand she kept in the corner, and loosened her belt, stepping out of her greaves one at a time. Usually she had to clean them when she took them off, but the only blood on them right now was Fenris’. “If you’re so worried about it, take your armor off.”

         Fenris scowled at her from the bed. She could _feel_ it on her back, but she ignored it. Rustling noises told her that he was getting out of his armor, at least. She wanted to yell at him, but she had more to say than she knew how to get out. Once she was peeled out of her armor enough, down to just the lower half and her leather vest, she crossed back to the bed and took the seat in front of Fenris.

         “Now, let me see this damage.” She held a hand out for his leg.

         Nothing happened.

         Elodie glanced up at Fenris, and he was staring at her. With a sigh, she reached forward and took him by the ankle. She half-expected him to fight, but the moment her fingers closed around him, he seemed to relax. She guided his foot forward so that it was close enough to inspect, and then gently tipped it upward so she could see the bottom of it.

         His foot was a mess. It was a good thing she’d carried him. There were several deep looking cuts, and what at least two pieces of glass ground into his flesh.

         “Fenris,” she sighed. He tensed a little, but she ignored it, looking up at him. “I really ought to take you to-”

         “No,” he said. “You will be sufficient.”

         Elodie rolled her eyes. “Well then I’m going to need a dagger.” Gently, she let go of his ankle, and he drew his leg back. She rose and headed to her belt.

         Anders was not a favorite of Fenris’, especially lately with all his looking down on the pair of them and the secrecy that he kept about his comings and goings and doings. Still, she knew she was no surgeon, and if she was left to this, Fenris might end up with lingering issues. The trouble was it wasn’t like a scar on his arm or his torso, his feet were always bare, and that made this more important. The only way to deal with it would be to clean the dagger and have healing potions about to take care of the rest.

         Still, she had to try asking again. “Are you sure about not wanting Anders to do this?” she asked. “This way will probably leave you with scars.”

         “I am most positive,” Fenris replied, stiffly.

         There was a knock on the door, one that was easily recognizable due to its softness. “Come in, Orana,” Elodie called.

         The elf woman came in, arms full. There was a basin on top of the wooden case of healing potions, a set of unrolled bandages over one of her shoulders. It all looked almost too heavy for her. “Mistress Hawke, Messere Bodhan said you needed bandages. Is everything alright, Mistress? You aren’t hurt are y-”

         Orana stopped short when she saw Fenris reclining on the bed, and Hawke holding a dagger. Her eyes widened, and her lip started to tremble. Months back the scene would have sent the elf screaming and running in the opposite direction.

         Elodie knew she had to speak quickly if she didn’t want glass all over _her_ bedroom floor as well. It could still happen, but not if properly headed off. “Fenris cut his feet. I’m helping him with the glass,” she said. “Can you bring that over to the chair?”

         Orana relaxed slightly, dipping her head, and did as she was asked.

         “I think we’ll need a bottle of wine, as well,” Elodie said. Then she glanced at Fenris, “Two bottles, actually.”

         “Hawke…”

         Elodie frowned. He was _still_ calling her Hawke.

         Stepping over to the fireplace, Elodie knelt, putting the dagger over the flames. Hopefully anything on it would be burned off before she caught her arm hair on fire.

         “Yes, mistress,” Orana said. She settled the crate and the basin of steaming water on the floor beside the chair and was up on her feet and out of the room faster than Elodie thought was reasonable.

         “I do not think the wine will be necessary,” Fenris said.

         Glancing over her shoulder at him, Elodie sighed. “You don’t _have to_ pretend this isn’t going to hurt, Fenris.”

         “Aren’t you the one who normally says I’ve had enough wine?”

         She frowned at him, and then her hand hurt. She jerked her hand back from the fire. The dagger was hot all the way to the handle. She let it drop to the tile and shook her hand. “Only when you… shit, ow… substitute wine for food.”

         “Is _that_ when you object?” Fenris asked, but the grumble was gone from his voice. “Your hand, did you-”

         The door opening again interrupted him. Orana tottered in, carrying two dusty bottles of wine and a set of glasses, all of which she set at on the desk. “Will there be anything else, mistress?” she asked brightly.

         “That’ll be all, thank you, Orana.” Elodie

         “Ice.”

         Both women turned to look at Fenris.

         “Your hand,” he said to Elodie.

         When Elodie made no dismissal of it, Orana murmured a quick, ‘right away’ and scurried out of the room.

         Elodie and Fenris were left silent in her bedroom. She blew on her burnt hand and tried to ignore how awkward this was getting. It felt strange to Elodie, not being able to just talk or make a joke. She’d _avoided_ just this sort of thing with Fenris for the years when he’d been unwilling to be with her, and now it seemed like she was standing right in the middle of it again.

         “Come here.”

         His words startled her, and she glanced over at him. Fenris was still seated on the bed where she’d dumped him, armor shoved down to the foot of it, and his feet dangled over the edge. At least they weren’t bleeding.

         “Hawke,” he grumbled, sitting up and extending a hand. “Come here.”

         “I _must_ be in trouble,” Elodie said, crossing to him. “You never call me ‘Hawke’ anymore.”

         Fenris took her wrist, drawing her hand close enough to inspect it. “That is untrue,” he said, gently straightening her fingers. “I am not in the habit of calling out your given name when others are present.”

         Elodie winced. “Ok, let me rephrase that, then,” she said. “You never call me ‘Hawke’ in the bedroom anymore.”

         He was quiet a moment, and then drew her hand up and pressed his lips gently to it. “Elodie,” he said softly against her skin. The kiss and rush of his breath felt good, though Elodie’s skin still tingled unpleasantly. “Orana will return with ice,” he said, kissing her fingertips gently, “hold on a moment.”

         If she wasn’t so pleased he still wanted her close, Elodie would be annoyed at him. Her hand hurt, though, and for some reason it felt better being this close to him.

         There was a quiet knock and then Orana came back in. She had a small bowl, and she crossed to the bed. “I brought some of Messere Bodhan’s salve that he puts on me when I burn myself,” she said, offering a smile, “and another bandage. There’s ice, as you requested, Master Fenris, but that’s usually more effective.”

         “Thank you,” Fenris replied. He took the bowl from Orana, and smiled at her.

         “Will there be anything else?” Orana asked.

         “No, thank you, Orana. We will be fine,” Elodie said.

         Nodding, Orana retreated from the room.

         The two of them were alone again.

         “Alright, so-”

         “In a moment,” Fenris said. He still had hold of her wrist, and set the bowl down beside him. He scooped some of the salve from it and began smoothing it into her skin in slow, tender strokes.

         Perhaps she was just getting used to ignoring pain, but the relief when the salve hit the burn was so palpable that Elodie let out a soft moan.

         Fenris’ lips twitched upwards slightly. Once he was finished with the salve, he wrapped the bandage around her hand, tying it off neatly, and kissed the inside of her palm. He drew back, released her wrist, and set his hands on the bed obediently. “You may proceed now.”

         Rather than question Fenris’ urge to take care of her much less troubling injury first, Elodie turned and retrieved the dagger from the floor. She took the seat in front of the bed and held out her hand. This time he surrendered one of his legs to her. Elodie untied the hem of his leggings, working it up his calf so that she could get at the ties that held the leather foot-covering on. Honestly, she wondered what the point of them was. The leather only covered the top of his foot and wound around to protect his instep. It had done some good against the glass, but not much. She eased it off carefully.

         Fenris leaned back against the bed, staring at the canopy while she worked it off him. He didn’t offer any words while she took care of first his left foot and then his right. He bent his leg obligingly, shifted appropriately when she moved his foot or turned his ankle or bent his knee. The only sign that he was hurt at all was his hands. They fisted in the covers beneath him.

         Elodie worked diligently, knowing she did not have the lightest touch, grateful he did not flinch or protest. She knew it had to hurt. She got the glass out, bathed the blood off, and packed the wounds with potion-soaked bandages before tying them off.

         Finished with the worst of it, she bent to get all the glass into the basin of bloody water, and rose to put it over by the door after rinsing off her bloody dagger.

         She poured two glasses of wine at the desk and headed back to the bed, pausing to snag a healing potion for Fenris before pushing the case of them beneath the bed with her foot. Uncorking it with her teeth, she poured it into one of the wine glasses.

         Fenris relaxed his hands on the bed, swallowing, and his hands relaxed on the covers.

         “Here,” Elodie said, standing against the bed between his knees. She held out the wine glass with the potion in it. “Drink.”

         He looked up at her, expression passive as he regarded the glass. “You would ruin a good glass of wine with this,” he said, reaching up to take it from her.

         “You say ruin, I say flavor.”

         “Have you ever tried drinking a potion this way?” Fenris asked, sitting up enough to swirl the liquid in the glass.

         “Normally I just plug my nose and gulp it down.”

         “Exactly,” Fenris retorted. He tipped the glass back, eyes closed, and drank the whole contents as quickly as he could.

         Elodie tried not to stare at the way his throat looked as he did it. When he was finished, he shoved the glass back at her and leaned back on the bed. She took it, sipping a bit of her own glass, and watched him. Fenris did not take healing well. He never said as much, but she assumed that whatever magic it was did something funny to his lyrium. Now he looked nauseated, and one hand came up to his forehead.

         Perhaps he was right, and now was no time for wine.

         She stepped away from the bed, turning to put the glasses on the mantle. When she turned back she found him staring at her.

         “You’re right about the wine,” she said. “Probably a bad time.”

         There was quiet again. Elodie felt a little tired, suddenly, and so she finished taking off the rest of her armor. Fenris sat on the bed and watched her. Once it was off, she straightened and crossed to the other side of the bed, pulling down the covers. “Get in.”

         He lifted a brow at her.

         “I’m not carrying you back to your mansion with your feet injured, not at this hour of night, and I’m not really in the mood to argue just yet. So get under the covers, and we can fight in the morning.”

         “You intend me to sleep after telling me the morning will be a quarrel?” Fenris asked, looking at her like she was simple.

         “Actually I thought you’d be tired,” Elodie said. She sighed, “I know I am.” She shook the blanket at him. “In.”

         To her surprise, after a moment, Fenris complied. He slid into the covers and leaned back against the pillows. He even reached over to pull the other side back for her.

         She was so surprised she just stared at him.

         Fenris flapped the blankets a little. “Your turn,” he replied.

         Well, Elodie thought, there were worse things than a last night with someone special. Even if it felt as though she had been stealing these for a month or more. She climbed into the bed, surprised at how awkward it was to be laying in a bed with Fenris with the two of them still dressed, and stared up at the canopy.

         Then he turned onto his side, facing her. “Elodie.”

         “Yes, Fenris?”

         “May I… hold you?”

         The question was so strange that she almost didn’t have an answer. Could he hold her? Of course he could-

         Oh wait. She was the one who said they’d be quarrelling in the morning. Fenris was cautious when engaging hostiles, or at least he was when he wasn’t blinded by rage.

         “Of course.”

         His expression smoothed into something resembling a smile, and strong arms pulled the two of them together. Elodie turned on her side and Fenris pulled her back against his chest. They fit together well when their armor was off. He got both arms around her and buried his face in the hair at the back of her head, breathing deeply.

         Maybe she was wrong. Oh, she wanted to be wrong. Maybe Fenris did want her, just like he said he did. Maybe it was something else, something she just hadn’t figured out yet. It _had to be_. He was too warm with her. His hands were too caring when he curled them around her, and he was too affectionate when given an opportunity like this one.

         The morning would tell, but for now she let her heart hope.


	4. Chapter 4

         Hawke fell asleep readily once they were under the blankets. Fenris did not find that odd, he knew from previous evenings that she could wear herself out with worrying. He simply had not expected her to be so worried that she would sleep so soon this evening. He was kept from sleep, preoccupied with this fight she seemed to sense coming. He contented himself with holding her and taking in the scent of her hair as he was unable to do when she was awake.

         Sometime in the night, Hawke turned. He thought she awoke, and that it was time for the argument she predicted. He relaxed when her arms wound around him and she buried her face against his chest. Things could not be bad, if she was holding him. Fenris kept himself still to keep from igniting the fire that raced through him when he bumped his feet. Hawke had no similar compulsion for staying still. She was an active sleeper, something he was accustomed to because she was an active dreamer. Nightmares came to bother her as often as pleasant dreams. She struggled against the nightmares, and more than once Fenris had taken an elbow or a fist when she was too frightened to know him. Her pleasant dreams could be just as surprising, though. Once she had rolled him onto his back and ridden him in her sleep. It hadn’t lasted long – Fenris had been too embarrassed by the thought of having her while she was unaware and had awoken her with a firm kiss as he pressed her to the bed – but it was enough to teach him to expect anything and everything from his sleeping lover.

         It melted his heart to feel her arms around him, and the warm relaxed feeling lulled him to sleep with a smile on his lips before long.

         He woke to find her propped up on an elbow on the pillow, smoothing his hair back from his face. “You look so peaceful when you sleep,” Elodie said to him.

         She was Elodie to him here, in her chamber without her armor and with nothing that nagged at her or called for her but him. She was dark hair and dark eyes and a smile that only lit up for him.

         Her fingers strayed to his temple and he couldn’t help but jerk his head a little, surprised at the sensation of her touch on his skin.

         The smile fell from Elodie’s lips, and she turned onto her back.

         “Why do you _do that_?” she grunted.

         “Do… what?”

         “Is my touch that bad?” she asked. “You flinch whenever my skin brushes yours… unless you’re touching me first.”

         Fenris stared at her profile. He could not come up with an answer to her statement. He didn’t…. Did he…? Did he really?

         “I know I’m not doing it too hard, Fenris. I touch other people and they don’t jerk away from me.” She pushed the covers off and made to get up, but he grabbed her arm. “See? That’s ok, but if I touch you, it’s like I’m burning you. Let me go.”

         “I did not realize I was doing it.”

         “I don’t think you get out of this with that,” Elodie said. She turned her head back to glare at him. “This isn’t like me accidentally elbowing you during a nightmare. You just _looked me in the eye_ and flinched when I touched you. Let go. If you don’t want me to touch you, I won’t.”

         Alarmed, Fenris tightened his grip on her arm. “It is not that,” he said quickly. “That is not the truth, Hawke, I -”

         “ _And you are calling me ‘Hawke’ again!_ ” she roared at him. She wrenched her arm free of his grip, dragging him half across the bed as she leapt out of it.

         He could think of nothing to say, at first. He lay sprawled where she dragged him, and Haw- _Elodie_ , he corrected himself, paced by the fire. She was angry. They argued about things often but it never turned them on each other. If she was angry with him then he knew he must actually be doing as she said he was.

         “I thought you…” she started, only to stop herself. “You said…” she tried again, but trailed off. Fenris listened as she aborted sentences, watched her run her fingers through her hair, tucking it repeatedly behind her ears only to drag it free again.

         She was working herself up into a battle rage, and it would be no good trying to talk to her if she managed it. He had to say something, and he had to say it now. Fenris pushed himself upright. “Elodie.”

         Elodie stopped pacing.

         “It is not what you think.”

         She turned, glaring at him. “How do you know what I think?” she snapped at him.

         “I crave your touch,” Fenris said.

         Her head tipped back and she laughed. It was not the pleased, happy sound he liked to hear from her. She shook her head and turned for the fire. The glass of wine she’d put away there last night came down and she took a long swallow. “Sure.”

         And then it struck Fenris.

         Elodie did not believe him.

         He stared at her back for a long moment, unsure how to explain. She drained the wineglass, as though filling herself with it would bring courage, and spoke first.

         “Fenris, you know how I feel about you. I hope I’ve made it clear, at least. I don’t want you to force yourself just because-”

         “The only thing I have ever forced myself to do about you is to stay away when I wished the opposite,” Fenris said. He threw the blankets off of himself, pushing himself to his feet.

         The pain that shot through his body was worse than he had anticipated, and his knees gave way. He hit the floor, hard, knocking his head on it hard enough that his vision dimmed at the edges.

         “Fenris!” he heard Elodie’s shout like he was underwater.

         He blinked, looking up, and she was kneeling beside him, a concerned look twisting her features.

         “You’re _injured_ ,” she said, helping him to sit up. The room threatened to spin, but Fenris took a deep breath. “You can’t just get up out of bed with wounds like those, of course you’ll fall.”

         Fenris reached out and cradled her cheek in his hand. She tipped her head into his touch. “I had to do something,” he said, “you sounded as though…”

         “I want you to be happy, Fenris,” Elodie said.

         They sat there for a moment. Elodie had her arms around his middle, he leaned into her, and he thought. She was wrong if she thought he was unhappy with her. Nothing could be farther from the truth. It was difficult for him to be away from her because he worried for her safety and grew jealous of whom she was with. It was just as difficult for him to be near her because he wanted her all to himself. Just the brush of her hand against his skin sent a thrill through him that made him jump.

         It made him jump.

         She was correct, then. He was… pulling away from her, but not for the reason she thought. Of course she would sound despondent, of course she would seek to free him, if she thought she did not please him.

         This must be corrected.

         “Will you listen?” he asked her gently.

         “Not on the floor,” Elodie replied.

         “Fine,” Fenris agreed, “but no leaving bed to pace by the fire.”

         “Alright.”

         He straightened, and she helped him up. Between the two of them they levered him back into bed without pressing his feet onto the floor again. Elodie climbed up next to him, and sat on her knees, waiting.

         “I… have been…” Fenris started. He took a deep breath. “Being on the run from Danarius,” Fenris said, proud that though there was a rush of anger at the name it did not incite the rage in him it once had, “meant keeping myself aloof from people. I have spent years avoiding others.”

         “We met in a dark alley introduced by a fidgety dwarf, Fenris, I gathered that. And you’ve said as much al-”

         He stopped her lips by pressing his fingers against them.

         “Right, listening,” she said, kissing his fingertips.

         “That includes… touch,” he said. This was difficult to get out. For the moment Elodie seemed content to continue listen to him, but he could not be sure her mood would hold. He did not know how he would react if she were to tell him something like this. “I have never been touched by someone in a way that was… pleasant. Before you.”

         Her eyes widened a little. She often had that surprised reaction when he revealed something about his time as a slave, and though at first it had struck him as ignorant, he found he preferred that Hawke thought the best of him. He liked that she assumed him normal, even when it wasn’t true.

         Even though it resulted in these misunderstandings, Fenris never wanted her to know the truth of it all.

         “The feeling of your skin on mine is… pleasant. I think about it when you are not in my presence, to the point of distraction. I crave your touch so that I feel weak to my desire for it.”

         “But you flinch…”

         “Even when I know it is coming, the warmth of your touch is always a surprise,” Fenris said. “I… never expected something so innocent to feel so good.”

         Her expression showed her confusion. Elodie sat up straighter, reaching out for him. Fenris watched her hand, felt tension build in him as her hand got closer. Her fingers against his cheek caused his face to twitch, but then the warm feeling he was so accustomed to spread across his skin. His eyes slid shut and he leaned into her hand.

         “You said before that it hurt to have your markings touched,” Elodie said, fingers stroking his cheek cautiously.

         “It is… different now.”

         “How?” she asked. The stroke of her fingers grew more firm, confident. Her palm against his cheek sent warmth through him, and when her fingers brushed against the lyrium on his neck, it was like a rush of heat surged through his markings all the way down to his toes.

         Fenris couldn’t bite back the pleased noise fast enough to keep it from escaping. He bit his lip and peeked at Elodie.

         “I never knew I could get you to make any noise.”

         Turning his head to kiss her palm, Fenris chuckled softly, “You have drawn noise from me before.”

         “In… somewhat different circumstances,” Elodie said, blushing slightly. “We’re still wearing clothes this time.”

         “We can fix that.”

 

*

 

         Fenris was feeling comfortably disoriented. Elodie was stretched beneath him still, face down into her pillow, hands still braced against the headboard. They were both sweating, she was breathing heavily, and Fenris was fairly certain that it would be time to seek out breakfast once she’d recovered. A glass of wine was not enough to keep either of their stomachs content for long.

         He pressed his hips forward, pressing into the wetness of her, and she groaned in a way that made his softening erection stir. After breakfast, he decides, this will have to continue, but for now he lets her hands relax from the headboard and slides out of her, rolling to the side and pulling her back against his chest.

          Fenris nuzzled her neck, settling down. All the tension of the previous evening seemed to be gone, and it was… normal again.

         Elodie’s hand covered his over her stomach, and Fenris started, just a little. “Does it scare you?” she asked.

         “Scare me?”

         “The way me touching you makes you feel. Does it scare you?”

         “You do not scare me.”

         “That’s not what I asked,” Elodie replied. She shifted just enough to meet his eyes. Her fingers spread, and she threaded them through his. “It’s normal, Fenris, to desire the touch of your lover. It’s normal for it to feel good, even when we aren’t naked.”

         “I…” Fenris found himself trapped in her eyes, helpless. Her fingers squeezed his, and that warm feeling he couldn’t name and couldn’t get enough of surged up his arm.

         “It’s alright if you don’t believe me yet,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

         “Elodie-”

         “No,” she said, leaning back down against the pillow. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.” She pulled his arm more securely around herself, almost like a blanket, and snuggled back against his chest. “We’ll talk about it-” she yawned, stretching enough that her rump slid against his spent manhood, “later.”


	5. Chapter 5

         Elodie knew a thing or two about Fenris. He wasn’t much for talk. He acted, most of the time, like talking would give someone else the upper hand. So she knew it had taken a lot for him to come out and admit what was really wrong, especially since he was likely to see it as putting him at a disadvantage.

         Oh, he was safe with her, and he knew it. But Fenris was not a trained house pet. He was more wild, and Elodie knew the instinct of any wild thing when wounded was to go on the defensive. Fenris was defensive and restrained most of the time, moreso when he was injured. The very idea of acclimating him to being touched while he was injured was a strict no-go.

         That meant there was a week in which she had to… sit on her hands. Not literally, not all the time, but she had to wait. She made sure that she kept Fenris off his feet, but Elodie was not always good at waiting. Thankfully Fenris was even less patient than she was, and when he became too restless he had no reservation against putting his hands on her.

         Elodie was happy to let him.

         It was almost like a holiday, or something else that started with an ‘h’ that she wasn’t willing to even _think_ all the way through for Fenris’ sake. He was enough. The five days she kept Fenris in her room were the longest that she spent without doing more than answering letters in years. There were protests from a few of the guilds and merchants, and she had a caller or two, but though she met with them – quite a feat since she had to convince Fenris that no one would disturb him and that she could handle herself in her own home – she politely sidestepped any questions about her health or requests for assistance.

         She only had to have Baskerville sit on Fenris once, and that was when Anders had dropped by for their semi-weekly debate about the oppression of mages and another ink-splotched copy of his manifesto. Fenris had growled loud enough when he heard the voices from downstairs that Elodie sent her mabari up to keep her convalescing lover in bed. She’d come upstairs to find the hound seated proudly on Fenris’ chest.

         Fenris would not allow her to call for Anders, or even tell him what had transpired. Not that she really expected Fenris would, but his feet healed more or less cleanly with only an overly liberal application of healing potions and time. He got a peculiar look on his face every time she fished one out of the case under the foot of her bed, as though he wanted to argue that she was wasting them, but he never said it aloud.

         And now he was well enough to walk.

         “If you’re going back to the mansion,” Elodie said, “you’re either borrowing shoes or you’re letting me clean up that glass.”

         “I take it you did not enjoy having me trapped in your bed for a week,” Fenris said.

         “Oh quite the contrary,” Elodie said, reaching to stroke his cheek before she crossed to her desk to shuffle through the newest pile of letters Bodhan had brought up for her. “I could stand to have you in my bed all the time, but you do fuss when I won’t let you get up and pace broodily by the fireside.”

         Fenris frowned at her, shaking his head. It had been too much hassle, he said, worrying about getting into his leggings whenever Orana or Bodhan came to the door. So, finally, the clothes she’d bought him months ago were getting some use. He was wearing a loose shirt – she’d bought it for him from the tailor in Hightown without taking into mind that while he was stronger than two men, he was skinnier than any standard a tailor would craft – and a pair of breeches that fit him a bit better. He remained seated by the fire, bent inspecting the soles of his feet. Both shirt and breeches were rolled to keep them out of the way, and Elodie tried not to stare at the expanse of skin showed off by his posture in the more casual clothing. It mostly worked, or at least she thought she was covering fairly well, pretending to be interested in the contents of her desk.

         “Where is the oil?” he asked absently, pressing his thumbs into the pad of one foot.

         Her father had never been one to waste magic or show it off where they might be caught, and after she’d chosen a broadsword as her weapon, they had a little sit down about sword wounds and how to clean them properly. Unwilling to expose them, her father had still been rather particular about her recovery. The oil was something he’d taught her to work into the flesh of her wounds to help keep the skin supple as it healed. In an effort to be as thorough as she could without magic, Elodie had insisted on a similar treatment to Fenris’ recovering feet. Bodhan had been sent out for the oil on her instruction.

         It only took a moment to locate the bottle on the corner of her desk, and in that moment an idea struck her. Snatching the container from the desk, Elodie tossed her letters down. “It’s here.”

         He held out a hand for the vial, still inspecting his foot.

         Crossing the room, Elodie kissed his palm, plopping down in front of him on the rug. It was not her most graceful descent to the floor, and she was not sitting her most ladylike. Fenris looked up at her with a lifted brow. “Let me.”

         “I do not need you to do this,” Fenris replied, looking confused.

         “No, but I want to.”

         “Elodie…”

         “Don’t you want me to?”

         His mouth opened, and then shut. “I…”

         “I don’t offer to do things I don’t want to do, Fenris,” Elodie said. She leaned forward, resting her hand on his where it was prodding the sole of his foot. “You ought to know that by now.”

         He hesitated, but then nodded.

         Elodie could barely contain her smile, and squeezed his fingers. He turned his hand enough to brush her fingers with his, almost shyly, and drew his hand away. Fenris settled, leaned just a bit away from her, weight resting on both palms. She didn’t let it bother her. She scooted forward, folding her legs, and drew his feet into her lap.

         She uncorked the bottle of Antivan… whatever it was, and poured some into her hand. The oil smelled nothing like the lavender oil her father had gotten for her, but Elodie thought that Fenris might not approve of having his feet smell like flowers. He hadn’t said a word at the choice of this scent, but he also hadn’t complained of it. The bottle went down onto the stones that marked the hearth, and she asked, “You’re not ticklish, are you?”

         Fenris snorted.

         “I had to _try_.” Elodie rubbed her hands together, spreading the oil, and took Fenris’ right foot in hand.

         He tensed as her hands touched his foot, but she expected him to. She ignored it, concentrating on working the oil into his skin, mimicking the motions of his fingers from earlier. Fenris squirmed, but not in a trying-to-escape sort of a way. His feet were tense, and they flexed at the pressure.

         Elodie dug her thumb into the pad of his foot where the muscle seemed almost knotted, and almost dropped his foot as he made a strangled noise.

         “Fenris?” she asked, looking up in concern.

         An expression she’d never seen on his face before greeted her. Fenris’ brows were lifted, eyes shut, and his lips were slightly parted. He didn’t seem to have heard her question. Curious, she repeated the press of her fingers into the sole of his foot. The same strangled noise came out of Fenris, but this time she was watching his face when he did it.

         Fenris was a quiet lover. He whisper filthy things to her mid-coitus, but that seemed more aimed at getting her excited than anything else. He took his passion almost entirely silent, climaxing in a flash of lyrium light from his markings. Elodie wondered if he’d ever been allowed to make noise before. She decided that it would be on her list of things to draw out of him once she’d helped him through this haphephobia, especially if he was going to look _like this_ while making pleasured noises. Fenris’ jaw softened, his lips parted, and his eyelids fluttered giving her little flashes of his eyes. When Elodie found another knot, he didn’t bother to stifle the noise anymore. Fenris let out a low, needy moan.

         When she’d worked all the knots from that foot, she settled it back into her lap so she could move on to the other one. She leaned down to kiss his ankle as she worked more of the oil into her hands. Fenris leaned back against the floor trustingly, and Elodie smiled to see the lazy look on his face. His eyes were shut and he tipped his chin up towards the ceiling. The oversized shirt showed off the caramel skin and the markings where they curved down his neck.

         “Am I doing it too hard?”

         A lazy chuckle came out of Fenris. “Any momentary pain is eclipsed by the pleasure of it,” he said.

         Elodie just grinned at him. Next time she was going to have to do this somewhere more comfortable. The couch, perhaps, or maybe just on the bed. Fenris squirmed a little as she worked her fingers across the sole of his foot, each shift stirring the scent of the oil. His soft moaning grew less soft, and Elodie worked her fingers up his ankle when she’d finished with his foot.

         “Like that?” Elodie asked softly.

         “Mmm,” Fenris managed to get out, eyelids fluttering.

         She slid her hands up the backs of both his legs, letting her fingers work their way up the rolled cuffs of his breeches. “You look it,” she said softly. “Do you like this smell?”

         “Mmm,” Fenris murmured.

         “It suits you,” Elodie said. “Makes me think of warm places and exotic things.”

         “And just… what is exotic?” Fenris asked in a sleepy voice. He was no longer squirming at her touch, now he stretched his back almost cat-like, white hair spreading on the rug.

         She wanted to tell him the truth. _He was exotic_. Spread across the rug with the glow from the fire warming his skin where it peeked out from the clothes that didn’t quite fit him, he looked like what the illustrators for Varric’s serials tried to come up with. The difference was that _Fenris was real_. No illustration could be more appealing that the living, breathing man that was on the floor in front of her. No painted picture could look better than this tanned skin with its white-blue markings. Fenris was beautiful, like something out of a dream, but Fenris didn’t want to hear that. Praising the way he looked always made him quiet, and sometimes turned him angry and sullen. He hated the way his markings looked, and the silver-white hair that always hung in such disarray. He hated it all because he claimed magic had done it to him, and though he was beyond throwing petty insults at mages around her, Fenris still wasn’t comfortable with magic. He might never be. Elodie didn’t want to ruin the mood, so she kept that opinion to herself.

         “Oh come on,” Elodie chuckled softly, bending to kiss his shin. “I’m from the land of ice, mud, and dogs. You lived near the jungle, in the heat, where all the best fruit comes from. There’s got to be something exotic you can reference.”

         “You overestimate me,” he said. The tone of his voice was softer, more like a whisper than a growl, and his lids were heavy. He gazed up at her, pliant beneath her fingertips, legs trustingly draped across her lap.

         “You can’t think of _anything_ that would classify as exotic?” Elodie asked, having lost track of any more intelligent response she might have made, all her good sense fled her mind as she met his gaze.

         He chuckled, and slid towards her, legs curling around her waist. “If you would call a bloody battlefield exotic,” Fenris suggested, voice low and rumbly. He hooked his ankles together behind her back and tugged. “Come here.”

         There were more comfortable places to get pulled on top of Fenris, probably, but if asked Elodie would be hard pressed to name any. He drew her up, tugging her down against his chest until they were nose to nose. Fenris wound his arms around her, stretching his legs out to curl with hers, and he pressed his lips to hers.

         Sometimes kissing Fenris was a fight or an argument, rough and hot and passionate. If he was too rough she had to coax him to be gentle. But _this_ kiss was sweet, relaxed, and for once there was tenderness to it without any encouragement. Elodie closed her eyes and sank into the kiss.

         Fenris squeezed her, stroking her back with his palms before his hands slid up the back of her neck and into her hair. He cradled her head for a moment before his hands came down to cup her cheeks. The kiss broke and he pressed his forehead to hers.

         It seemed the time for one of them to say something, but the words were missing. All Elodie could offer was a breathless smile, pleased at how he had reacted to her hands on him.

         In the quiet that settled between them, his green eyes searched hers and he languidly pressed their lips together in another kiss.

         Fenris didn’t make it back to the mansion that day.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

         Taking even part of a week off had, at one point, seemed perfectly reasonable. That was sometime before she’d become Champion. Now it was barely a week and she had watched the letters pile up like some strange monster that was taking over her desk. The stack was high enough that Elodie knew she wouldn’t be able to ignore them any longer once Fenris was well enough to return to the ruined mansion.

         In the face of the move, Fenris’ mood had become cooler than it had been during the week they were holed up in the Amell estate. It was almost like some sort of a spell had existed, and was worn off now that they were going to be parted. Elodie told herself that it was to be expected. Instead of dwelling on it, she chose to enjoy what of his easy smile remained while it lasted. Her joy was short lived, but it was joy nonetheless.

         The day they both agreed he could return, Elodie enlisted Donnic and Aveline to help her clean the glass up. Three brooms, two splintered chairs, what seemed an endless pile of broken bottles, and several hours of mildly sweaty cleaning later and there was no further danger to Fenris’ bare feet. Fenris had bristled the entire time, forced to wait on the landing as they did the work so he did not re-injure himself in the cleaning.

         After it was done, Aveline and Donnic took their leave. At a gentle query from Donnic, Fenris agreed to resume their card nights. Elodie lingered behind, wanting to be sure Fenris was alright. When she asked about his feet he admitted privately to her that his feet were still a bit tender, but they were otherwise healed. Beyond that he seemed annoyed.

         His good mood seemed all but evaporated until she indicated that she would be leaving. Fenris was inspecting the remaining furniture, but when she said it, he turned to look at her. It was a look Elodie recognized, though she most often saw it in battle.

         She had long ago subtitled it Fenris’ ‘have you lost all reason’ look.

         The only word he had said to her was, “Stay.” It was command and question at the same time, somehow soft enough that she could hear the hope in his tone as he said it. His good mood seemed not to have left entirely, rather it had been hiding.

         A smile played on Elodie’s lips as she looked at him and saw the ease return to his countenance the longer she lingered. There was nothing truly pressing, she decided. Nothing worth ruining his mood.

         It was the soreness in his feet that gave Elodie reason to spare him from the trip out to the Wounded Coast the end of that week. Well, that and she didn’t want to foul Fenris’ recent good mood with chatter about Feynriel.

         Of course not wanting to muck him out to the Coast with sore feet didn’t mean she really wanted to tackle Evet and his half-mad vendetta for slaughtering his band of crooked thieves before wading through an entire company of raiders while listening to Sebastian spout off about the Chant as cover for his preoccupation about Elthina either, but it could have been worse.

         There seemed to be a lot of ‘worse’ brewing nowadays, and she seemed most often to be the designated handy-ma’am for the job. Like the Qunari swords, and the pesky Followers of She that seemed to have nested in Lowtown. Taking some time off had only piled all the problems she had to deal with deeper on the days that followed. Once Fenris left the estate, it felt like she barely had time to turn around without something urgent popping up. But given the choice, Elodie knew she would do it again in an instant. She only had to think of Fenris’ slack jaw and pressed-closed eyes from that last evening, and it was worth it. Seeing him would have improved her mood, but just knowing he was better did wonders for her disposition. It helped her keep her shoulders squared against the yoke.

         Or at least that worked for a while. Eventually her good humor cracked as the amount of things exceeded the hours in the day. When it did, and she snapped in moodiness and exhaustion, Varric was the one to comment on how she’d not had her elf trailing in her footsteps for a while. Elodie denied it hotly, but then Isabela mocked her when she said that his feet were still healing. It made Elodie pause. Usually Varric and Isabela behaved themselves with her on the subject of Fenris. It had taken a long drawn out series of arguments, and once she’d pulled her broadsword and put it through a table at the Hanged Man, but it worked out in a truce on the subject. The two of them united in teasing about Fenris could only mean that it was far longer than was reasonable. Elodie tried to count the days, and realized she couldn’t. She kicked herself for not noticing. She’d just been so blighted _busy_.

         They were only halfway down the docks when she had her revelation, on their way to the disused passage to check on the Carta that had been pushy down there for a few nights. Just as Elodie was ready to call it off for the night, raiders swooped in on them. It was always something. They mopped up the raiders and Elodie sent the others home. She ignored the moody look Anders gave her, didn’t even wait to hear his complaint that he’d been dragged from ‘important’ work at the clinic for this.

         Elodie didn’t even walk them home. She walked with them as far as the Hanged man and then waved them all goodnight as she headed straight up to Hightown.

         The trek to the mansion felt longer, this evening, than usual. Perhaps that was because it had been a while since she’d made it. She pushed that from her mind, choosing to focus instead on the warm feeling that was starting in her chest at the thought of seeing Fenris again.

         The closer she got, the warmer she felt. By the time she was in the Chantry courtyard, she was tingling with it. She could barely feel the weight of her armor as she trudged across the stone. The sound of her footsteps in the greaves was almost alien, as though someone else was making that noise instead of her and she was only listening to it.

         The stairs passed away, and she made the left turn to see the broken down mansion tucked so neatly in the corner of the Estates. In the darkness it looked less broken and far more welcoming. Glancing about to be sure there was nothing dangerous following her, Elodie crossed to the front door and pushed inside.

         The entrance hall was dark, but it almost always was. The torches were long spent, and without the warm glow of the fire the room was very dim. In the great hall beyond the entrance, the moonlight came in through the holes in the roof, keeping the shadows from being true black. She knew the way well enough to step over the body slumped beside the door, even though she could not make it out. Elodie headed into the great hall, stepping into the room. The moonlight washed out all the other colors that might be there by day, making the room seem as though it were painted blue from the broken floor tiles all the way up to the rotting rafters.

         A flicker of amber light that indicated some sort of fire coming from the open door above, and her heart leapt to see it even though that small glow was the only indication that Fenris might be about.

         She could almost see him in her mind’s eye, seated at the fire with a bottle of wine in his hand. Would his eyes light up when he saw her? She thought they would. As she mounted the stairs she felt warmer still, and knew she was rushing up to his room.

         But she passed through the doorway to find it was empty.

         There was a fire in the hearth, but it was low, almost dead. There was no movement besides the play of shadows from the furniture as the flames consumed the last of the wood in the hearth.

         Elodie couldn’t help the way her heart fell. Perhaps he had gone out. It was about the hour that they gathered for cards at the Hanged Man. Or maybe he’d headed out for food, even _Fenris_ had to eat from time to time.

         “Tell me,” his voice interrupted her thoughts. “What have I done wrong that you avoid me?”

         The warmth in her chest left her, replaced by a cold stone that dropped into her gut, and Elodie turned to look for him. She hoped to find him pressed against the wall by the door, blade at the ready for his intruder.

         But Fenris was not there. It took a long moment of scanning the room to find him. He was seated in the farthest corner from the fire, where the dim light barely reached him. His knees were pulled up against his chest, arms folded on top of them, gauntleted hands clenched in fists.

         “Done… wrong?”

         Fenris kept his chin tucked, face hidden behind his hair. She’d seen him hang his head thusly only once before, in the Hanged Man when faced with Danarius’ end. She hated that look, hated seeing him look like he did not deserve notice.

         “Yes.”

         “Nothing,” Elodie replied. “I was busy.”

         “Busy has never before kept you away,” Fenris said, and she could almost _hear_ his bitter reasoning as he continued, “We have been busy _together_.”

         Elodie withheld her sigh. “You were not recovering _before_.”

         “I had recovered sufficiently before I left your mansion,” Fenris frowned, still staring at the floor. “You-”

         “You had glass embedded in your _feet_ , Fenris,” Elodie retorted. “Without…” she started to say ‘magic’ and then stopped herself to say, “healing from that sort of thing takes time. You were not fine, you were wincing all the way back to the mansion. I know, I was there.”

         Fenris pushed up to his feet. He was glaring at her. “I was _wincing_ ,” he growled, “because you were coddling me in front of Aveline and Donnic.”

         “All I did was ask them to help clean. They’re our friends. Friends help each other. All friends do that, especially when someone’s injured.”

         “I am not _all of your friends_ ,” Fenris said. He stalked past her, crossing to the fireplace, and put both hands on the mantle.

         “No, you’re my lover.”

         “Then do not leave me behind.” His voice sounded like steel dragged against stone, and he stared into the fireplace.

          “I shall keep that in mind. Next time Fenris is wounded, show no sympathy.”

         An annoyed grunt came out of Fenris. “You forgot me.”

         The words were like a sharp pain stabbed into her. There was just enough truth to them to make them sting. Elodie ground her teeth together and spat out, “I’m not the _only_ one to blame, you realize. You could have come to me.”

         Fenris made no reply. He remained silent and her words seemed to hang in the air between them. Turning her back to him, Elodie folded her arms and waited, staring at the doorway. There must be some response to that. There simply _must_.

         But Fenris did not seem to move, and no sound came out of him. She couldn’t even hear his breathing over the crackling of the dying fire.

         Elodie closed her eyes, sucking in a breath. That turned out to be a bad idea. The moment her lids were down, all she could see was Fenris with his back tense as he leaned over the fireplace. He looked that way, sometimes, rigid in the face of something he was defiant against. She might admire it if he did not look always so pained as he did it. She hated seeing him in pain. She hated it as much as she hated that defeated sulk of his head, and how far away she felt from him.

         Through the haze of her agitation, his words repeated in her ears. Had she forgotten him? Surely-

         No. She must be honest with herself, if only in this instance. She must be honest for him as she was to him. She had realized it on the docks – she could not put to number the days that it had been since she had last seen him.   He… had a point. She could admit it, no matter how grudgingly. It had been years since she’d excluded him from her work schedule for this long. On occasion she had actually _tracked him down_ to help her, and once she had dragged him out hung-over. He should have come to her, but she had not been acting according to her own character.

         She took a deep breath. Stuffing her anger somewhere deeper inside for later, somewhere she opened when she needed to put down something dangerous or unholy, Elodie opened her eyes and turned around. She crossed to where Fenris stood at the fireplace. For a moment, she hesitated, contemplating the back of him. The pauldrons of his armor were spikey and forbidding, pointed back at her almost accusingly from the angle of his arms lifted to the fireplace. They seemed a warning against touching him.

         That simply wouldn’t do.

         Reaching out, she began to undo the straps on them. He started as soon as her hands fell on him, and she winced. “It is alright, Fenris.”

         “Hawke, I am in no mood for this.” He snapped, hands flexing on the mantle. The talons of his gauntlets grated against the stone.

         “Yes, well, I don’t really fancy taking your armor to the face. These things are pointy.”

         Fenris growled as though she might take it to the face another way. “I am _not_ in the mood for-”

         “I want to give you a hug, Fenris.”

         He stilled entirely. It was not pained tension or stiffness, though his hands remained gripping the mantle tightly, but rather a lack of motion that indicated his surprise. The first buckle came undone and the metal inched down his shoulder. The second came undone and both of them were sagging off his arms. Once they were out of the way Elodie put her arms around his waist and leaned against his back.

         He tensed as her hands crossed around his middle, but did not struggle or speak. She leaned her cheek against his neck, and his skin felt warm. There was a flash of light as his lyrium pulsed, but Elodie could feel him begin to relax against her.

         “Hawke, I-”

         “I’m sorry, Fenris,” Elodie said. Fenris tensed at her words, back straightening a little. Elodie tightened her arms, pressing her cheek against his neck. He smelled a bit like unwashed man – some almost sour scent of sweat and something undefinable but entirely Fenris – but his hair was still soft against her cheek.

         “I will not break from a little pain,” Fenris said softly. His hands came off the mantle and his gauntlets covered hers.

         “I know.”

         “Then you must treat me as such.”

         She nodded, withholding her sigh. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against his neck.

         “Release me.”

         Elodie’s eyes opened wide at that. She did not expect to be so rebuffed, and she held herself still against him. “Fenris, I really am sorry.”

         He plucked her hands off of him, but didn’t push her away. Elodie watched for his face as he turned, seeking some sign from him, but she was pulled against him too quickly to make out his expression.

         Fenris had masterfully crafted armor that must have been custom made for him. It wasn’t very comfortable to lean against, especially the way she was tugged against Fenris. Her head was tucked under his chin, a position that was comfortable without their armor on, but less so with the metal between them. At least her own armor protected most of her from being poked or jabbed by it. There was a ridge poking her in the cheek, and when his hand came up to her hair it tangled almost painfully in her dark curls. His cheek pressed against the top of her head, and Fenris sighed.

         “Patibat cum solicitudum umo tua,” he said softly. The metal stroked her as he shifted his thumb in her hair. She could feel the tips of his gauntlet against her scalp, but his grip was gentle enough that there was no pain. 

         “Fenris?” Elodie shifted enough so that the ridge of his armor was not digging quite so painfully into her cheek and wound her arms around his waist.

         “Vana… na senti asi.” His head shifted, and she felt his lips against her hair. 

           He didn’t usually lapse into Arcanum on her. Occasionally he cursed in it, or whispered it in her ear in the throws of passion, but rarely did he hold one-sided conversations with her. She wanted to ask what he was saying, but she didn’t know how to interrupt him. The difference in his tone as he spoke now from when he was cursing was startling. He sounded tender when he spoke, and she feared that interrupting might break the spell.

         “Beseve na dorus,” he said, lips still against her hair. “Festis bei umo cana varum.” A soft chuckle came out of Fenris as he finished, and he kissed her hair again before putting his cheek back against the top of her head. 

         For a while, Elodie held still. She wanted him to say whatever it was he needed to say, if there was more. But there did not seem to be more. Fenris tightened his arm around her waist, the plates of her armor pushing together as he did so. His thumb continued to stroke her scalp and he kept his cheek against the top of her head.

         “I don’t understand what you mean,” Elodie said once she was sure he meant to remain silent.

         “Mm,” Fenris hummed against her scalp, and it felt strange. “You have said you are sorry.”

         “Yes.”

         “I have accepted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Arcanum in this section, I made liberal use of katiebour’s Tevene Dictionary/Reference, which is on AO3 [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/227715/). There’s also a smattering of Google Translate Latin and highschool Spanish in here. 
> 
> **Tevene phrases usesd in this chapter:**  
>  Patibat cum solicitudum umo tua. = I suffered with worry for you.  
> Vana... na senti asi. = Before... I never felt like this.  
> Beseve na dorus. = You should be proud.  
> Festis bei umo cana varum. = You will be the death of me.
> 
> Also, I know that "Festis bei umo canavarum" is spat out like a curse in the game, and that Katie's dictionary indicates it as solely a curse word, but I'm assuming that it's mostly in the tone and inflection that makes it a curse. (Much more European with their colorful curses.) I hope you'll forgive my liberty here.


	7. Chapter 7

         Fenris needed to bathe. Elodie was unwilling to compromise on that. There was a rather uncomfortable untangling of his gauntlet from her hair, and afterwards he rebuckled his pauldrons. She had stayed overnight at the dilapidated mansion many times, but had never been comfortable with the cracked, dirty room that passed for a bathroom in it. It was worse than the bathhouse near Gamlen’s place in Lowtown. Once his armor was set straight, Fenris agreed to return with her to the Amell estate, though Elodie was under the impression that he was humoring her with it.

         They were beset by a gang in the Chantry courtyard.

         It was thrilling to be fighting alongside Fenris again. He was quicker than her, and that night he seemed more ferocious. Whatever resentment he might still be feeling had worn off, it seemed, and the two of them laid waste to their attackers in an appropriately messy fashion.

         Elodie hadn’t felt so light in weeks, and she felt a bit ashamed for it until she saw the smile on Fenris’ face. The look started her to laughing, and it wasn’t more than a few moments before he joined her. They laughed the rest of the way back to the estate.

         Bodhan let them in the front door, obviously having been waiting for her return, and they dripped their way into entry. Once Bodhan locked the door behind them, they stripped out of their armor. It was a long-standing mutual agreement to try and keep too much scrubbing up of blood on Orana’s part.

         Down to just leather and bare feet, they headed into the house. It wasn’t too bad of an evening, they weren’t leaving bloody footsteps behind them. It was only as they turned into her room that Elodie realize a very basic problem.

         They were now both splattered with blood and smelled more than a bit off. Thankfully she was spared most of the carnage in her hair by virtue of the helmet that she wore, but the ends were wet, and she could feel the stickiness of the blood on her skin.

         She marveled not only that it felt familiar, but that she wasn’t scratching at it. If she’d been asked back in Lothering if she’d ever be so comfortable around drying blood, Elodie probably would have said no. Behind her, she could hear Fenris removing his bloody leather vest. She also, probably, would not have imagined a day without the twins or her mother.

         The lightness she felt turned to stillness. Elodie stepped over to the fireplace and looked up at the coat of arms that hung over the mantle. The Amell crest… the Hawke crest, now. Even if she married, she could not take back her mother’s name. If she married, she would give up her father’s name as well.

         And nothing could bring back the twins. Carver’s head had been bashed in and Bethany-

         Fenris was closer now, just behind her, and she was surprised that she hadn’t felt him approach. “Hawke?” Fenris said.

         The word was like a knife in her back. To be reminded, again, that she was a Hawke. No, she was not _a_ Hawke, she was **the Hawke**. Even the city knew her as such. Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall.

         And she was the last.

         An evil feeling stirred in her at that. All the rage and depression she’d suffered after the loss of her mother came back, attacking her. Her throat felt dry and her eyes watered as she looked up at the crest.

         “Nothing,” she replied, shaking her head a little. She gritted her teeth against the dark feeling that was churning inside her and lowered her eyes to the stretch of stone mantle between her hands.

         “It is not nothing.”

         She made some noise in reply, but could find no words.

         The two of them stood in silence for a long moment. She had no further answer for him. It was not something she knew _how_ to explain to him, not something that she knew how to share. If there were anyone she could share this threatening despair with, it would be Fenris, but she could not find the strength to open her mouth to voice it. Elodie stared harder at the stone, unsure of the great empty feeling that had taken over all of her senses. Her legs felt weak, as though the ground beneath her were rolling like the shudder from a dragon dropping to the ground. Elodie closed her eyes, afraid to look down and see the tile was opened up beneath her feet. She was- _Hawke was_ alone and would fall into it. With her eyes closed, the light did not reach her. It was dark and there was nothing holding her in the world at all but her grip on the mantle.

         A broad hand grasped her hip, and Elodie was drawn back against Fenris. He pulled her back until her hands came away from the mantle. “I am here,” he said.

         It was not enough, could never be enough, and yet it was all at the same time. Fenris could not be her father, her brother, her sister, or her mother. He could not be her kin, could not share the memories of the fireside or that horrible winter crossing the Bannorn with a broken heart. Fenris could not be the things whose loss caused the yawning gap that she felt, but he was there. He was solid, he was real, and he was present _now._

         “I am with you, Elodie.”

         The words couldn’t close the hole she felt, but her weak knees finally gave out. She sagged trustingly into his grip. Fenris tightened both arms around her and held her up, keeping her back against his chest. He breathed, steady and deep, and the expanding and contracting of his chest against her back was familiar and calming.

         Silence remained that Fenris did not fill with words, just as he hadn’t when her mother had passed, but Fenris was _with her_ just as he had been then. Elodie let him handle her. She breathed when he breathed, taking in the calm that was wrapped around her. She shifted when he adjusted his grip, and then sighed when he buried his face in her neck.

         He inhaled deeply, and then leaned his face from her. “Which of us is it that supposedly smells worse?”

         The lightness came back, all in a rush, banished by some power of Fenris’. In the absence of it, she felt almost dizzy. “You,” Elodie replied, though she couldn’t, for the moment, stifle the giggle that rose in her from his question.

         “Come,” Fenris said, the arms around her waist pulling her towards the bathing chamber. “I would kiss you without blood between us.”

 

*

 

          Unlike the broken, filthy room that was all that remained of the bathrooms at the mansion across Hightown, the bathrooms at the Amell estate were pristine. After the mansion had been reclaimed, Leandra had made sure to properly renovate the bathrooms in a modern, tasteful way that had cost far too much money. The master bathroom was spacious enough for more than two people, though there was only one tub.

 

         At times Elodie had thought her mother cared more for the twins than her, but that had been done, she knew, because of something she’d said. When they were fleeing Templar back and forth across Ferelden, Elodie’s swords skills had become a rather handy commodity. She was very poor at avoiding the carnage she caused, however, and had told her parents on numerous occasions that she would give her eyeteeth for a good bathroom. Leandra had granted that wish as soon as she was able. At its completion, the bathroom boasted a porcelain tub large enough for two people to soak comfortably in. Elodie had never gotten up the courage to ask her mother just who she was to share all that space with before she died.

         At some point after the renovation, Varric contrived that her bathroom got an update to accommodate her preferences for her nameday present. While she had been on an extended errand, he’d coordinated with Bodhan to have a standing basin installed to, as Varric put it, ‘rinse the worst of it off’. It had been years ago, now, before Orana joined the household, but it was a practical renovation. It was, Varric had told Elodie, far classier than splashing a bucket over her head. It was also a gift that she still had not found a way to repay the two dwarves for. She did not tell people, but it was still one of her favorite nameday presents.

         It had not been difficult to convince the dwarf who did the renovation to add a second standing basin to the bathroom when it became obvious that Fenris would be a more habitual user of the room.

         Calmed from her earlier distress by Fenris’ proximity, Elodie joined him without too much dragging involved. Though Fenris did not kiss her, he did not hesitate to touch her, and made short work of her leathers. The bloody leather ended up in a pile on the tiled bathroom floor, safe from staining the floor in the bedroom or making too much of a stink.

         Once she was naked he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her to him. The warmth of him reassured her, chasing the last of the shivers out of her body. Despite what he had said, he kissed her forehead before releasing her and stripping out of his leathers.

         Elodie watched him as he did it. She admired him as first the leather vest came off, and then the leggings were pushed down and stepped out of. She appreciated the look of him as he headed, naked, to the tub to turn on the tap. He selected the bath salts that he most often used from the collection at the foot of the tub, and added them to the tub to mix with the water as it filled. The sight of him so familiar with her space reassured her. Something in her settled down entirely as he headed over to the basin he always used. He splashed water along his arms and then lowered his head to splash it across his face. She watched his arms move, eyes lingering on how his muscles flexed beneath his markings.

         “For someone so concerned with cleanliness, you do not appear to be washing,” Fenris noted.

         Startled at being caught like that, Elodie turned on the tap at her basin.

         Fenris watched her a long moment before dunking his head into the basin to dampen his hair.

         Elodie took up a cloth to clean the tacky feeling off her neck. She did not, however, stop watching Fenris. The curve of his back as he bent over the basin accentuated the curling lines of lyrium. She tried to remember the first time they’d done this – cleaned themselves in the same room without any care for their clothing or each other’s naked bodies – and thought it must have been after they had disposed of Castillon. Both had been particularly splattered that night. Elodie had lost her helmet during the fight, and her hair was thick with chunks of pirate from a bolt Varric had shot. Fenris was little better, and had been snarling and protective of her all the way back to the estate. Without thinking, the two of them had stripped down and just… bathed. They were too tired to think, let alone anything else, and they ended up naked and in bed. She’d slept like a baby.

         During their separation, Elodie had been reluctant to form another attachment. Need for some sort of connection had drawn her back to Varric’s suite at the Hanged Man, but it was not the same as it had been before. They both agreed on that, and gave it up after the second attempt. He was still a comfort with his magic voice and warm decanter of brandy, especially when she found out that something was happening between Fenris and Isabela. Whatever it was, apparently, lasted only a while. _Whatever it was_ ended Danarius arrived, and Fenris had come back to Elodie only a few nights after the magister was dead.

         Since their reconciliation, Fenris seemed far hungrier for Elodie’s embrace. She was no less drawn to him, enough to make Isabela wolf-whistle at the way they kissed one another goodnight, and more than enough to draw a frustrated rant out of Anders that they ought to take a room at the Rose to ‘get it out of their system’.

         The night cleaning off Castillon was the first night they spent alone without a naked, sweaty interlude since reuniting. It was a pleasant beginning to nights Fenris stayed with her, just stayed without any need for sex to bring him to her bed. They talked, or they read, or… sometimes they drank. It was like years ago drinking wine in that ratty mansion he didn’t seem ready to leave, ignoring the mold smell. The only difference was that now they weren’t across the room in separate chairs.

         Fenris pulled his head from the basin, glancing at her through wet white hair. “You are staring.”

         Elodie could see the disapproving twist of his lips, the one he tried to hide. Fenris knew what she thought and why she watched him, but he did not share her lofty opinion of his looks. Though he did not contradict her, and he never stopped her, he moved more stiffly when he knew she was watching if any expanse of his skin was visible. He always had, though the affectation had worsened since Danarius’ death.

         Nothing she had been able to get him to speak of yet.

         “I like what I see,” she replied, resuming her scrubbing and taking her eyes off him to afford him some privacy.

         More of Fenris was exposed outside of armor, but he finished rinsing the worst of the fight off himself and crossed to the filled tub and turned off the tap. The water in the tub was so hot that it was steaming. Fenris seemed to pay the temperature no mind. He put an arm into the water to stir it, mixing the bath salt with it as casually as though he were reaching into cold water. Elodie wondered if his tolerance for the heat was stubbornness or if it had to do with growing up so far north.

         Once he was satisfied, Fenris climbed into the tub, sinking into the water up to his neck. Years ago he had admitted to her that there was an ache that he felt in his markings. After returning, he had not mentioned more about it, but he did not seem as pained as he sometimes did. To herself, Elodie thought that her insistence on him bathing might have something to do with it. He always made the bath hotter than she could stand, but climbed into it eagerly, and if she left him to his own devices he would languish in the water until it was all but cold.

         His head tipped against the side of the tub, and green eyes found her. Their eyes met, and then his lowered, sweeping across her bare skin.

         Sometimes when he looked at her, especially when he looked at her like _that_ , she felt shy of being naked before him. Elodie never asked what he saw when he looked at her, never told him that she didn’t quite understand why his eyes stayed on her body when she stood bare before him. There were more scars on her than there were on him, if one didn’t count the lyrium veins carved into him.

         She had a nice figure, but it was strong rather than ample. Tailors and dressmakers alike had taken issue with the lack of fullness to her hips. Only her armorer was pleased by it, so she doubted the sight of her naked body was anything to write stories about, even though Varric spent no small amount of time detailing the sexual exploits of her fictional double. Elodie knew she would never compete with Isabela when it came to voluptuousness. Elodie placated herself that there were few who _could_. She had no problem with how she looked, but she could not help the comparison when it was _her_ that Fenris had gone to when-

         Elodie busied herself with cleaning off the dirt and blood on her forearms, stamping down on the jealous insecurity.

         “There is room for two.”

         She glanced over at him. Fenris gave every indication of being enraptured by the bath. His eyes were closed, head tipped back against the curved back of the tub. His cheeks were flushed with the heat, making his complexion seem healthier than it had a scant hour before in the darkness of the mansion.

         “If you want to boil yourself, go right ahead,” she said, “I’ll wait until it’s cooled down some.”

         Fenris chuckled. “Suit yourself.”

         The only problem with waiting was that there was _only_ one tub in the bathroom, and now that she was clean, there was nothing more for her to do. She traced a thumb down a scar on her forearm. A light splashing noise came from the tub as Fenris rolled his shoulders in the water. Elodie looked over, taking him in again. She wanted to put her hands on him. Before she might have worried about his reaction, but now…

         His neck was exposed, and his damp hair looked a little matted.

         She wanted Fenris not to hate his own skin, even if it was only for a little while. There was no sense wasting the time while the water cooled. She gathered up a comb and a drying cloth and crossed to the tub. She dropped the drying cloth on the tile floor and knelt on it.

         “What are you doing?” Fenris asked, voice curious but also lazy. It came out almost like a yawn.

         When she lifted her hands to his head, Fenris didn’t even stir. He shifted obligingly when she guided him back enough so that she could touch the whole of his head. “Combing your hair,” Elodie said, “It’s a mess.”

         “Combing my-”

         Elodie slid her fingers into his hair, and Fenris stopped talking in the middle of his repetition of her words. Gently she pressed her fingertips against his scalp. The muscles at the base of his skull were tense, and she pressed her fingers more firmly into them. Fenris groaned at first, but the sound dissolved into a sigh of pleasure as the tension in his muscles released.

         “After I get your hair,” Elodie said softly, slipping her fingers free carefully, “would you like me to do that some more?”

         A soft, pleased noise came out of Fenris in response to her question, but no words. Elodie was getting used to that. He seemed to enjoy when she did that sort of thing for him, but he still wouldn’t reach out for it. She contemplated his hair, lifting a hand and stroking the tangles with her fingers. They seemed angry, and the water was no help at loosening them. If she tried to comb this it would just pull.

         Suddenly, Fenris’ breath caught. He straightened up, pulling his head forward and out of her grip.

         “Fenris?”

         He took a breath. “Ah, it’s nothing.”

         Elodie wished she could see his face to know what his reaction was. Rather than dwell on something she couldn’t get an answer for, she reached for the bottle of oil that she used on her hair.

         “What are you doing?” Fenris settled back against the tub, head once again in reach.

         “Oil,” Elodie said. The first bottle she pulled up was bath salts, decidedly not what she was looking for, so she leaned down to find the correct one.

         “You wish me to glisten for you?”

         Nearly toppling over as she burst into laughter, Elodie slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. When Isabela had gone on her little fantasy friend-fiction, Fenris had seemed annoyed. Looking up, she was half-afraid that he was annoyed now.

         A dark brow was arched, and Fenris couldn’t keep the corner of his lips from quirking in a suppressed smile.

         Glad of his joke, she let her hand drop and just laughed. Fenris turned in the tub, leaning against the side to watch her. His eyes were half-lidded, but his eyes were intent. She’d never tell him aloud that he looked young with his tussled hair and flushed skin, but she could think it all she liked. The thought helped stifle her mirth, and she resumed checking the bottles for the oil she was looking for.

         “Is there some purpose to this oil?” he asked.

         “It’s for your hair,” Elodie said. “It’s matted, I’ll just yank it out by the roots if I try to comb it like this.”

         “You sound as though you have some experience at this.”

         At last she found the right bottle, and resolved to clear out the older, half-empty bottles that were left over from years past. “Carver used to let his hair get that tangled. He refused to bathe after sword practice even after I told him he stunk so badly that the enemy would smell him coming.”

         The memory was a fond one, even if Carver was no longer with her. It was a warm thought for a moment. She sat up, staring at the bottle in her hands, and recalled Carver protesting at the smell of it.

         Carver had-

         Before she could fall into the memory, a warm, wet hand reached out and stroked her cheek. Glancing up, she was met by Fenris’ eyes. They were no longer half-lidded. He was staring at her, intently, and his fingers urged her closer by her jaw.

         Elodie leaned closer, and his lips pressed to hers. They were too hot for the kiss she was used to, but it was good. His hand slid around her neck, sinking into her dark curls, and it felt like it was on fire, but that was good too.

         His forehead, warm and damp, pressed against hers. Elodie kept her eyes closed, the heat of the bath on his skin and the steam from the water rising in the air and just _him_ close to her. She relaxed.

         “The water is not so hot,” he said softly.

         Reaching up, Elodie put her hand in the water, and jerked it out quickly. “Maybe not to you.”

         Fenris kissed her again, gently, and released her. “Then I believe you were to… comb my hair.”

         The way he hesitated on it made her chuckle, as though he were afraid it was some attack he did not know the details of. He settled back in the tub, hands lowering into the water, and she picked up the bottle of oil and moved back to her seat on the drying cloth.

         “This may… smell a bit… feminine,” she said by way of apology as she set the comb on the tile beside her in easy reach.

         “Oh?” Fenris glanced over his shoulder at her.

         “It’s what I use on mine.”

         He licked his lips and straightened around to face the far wall again. “I shall endure.”

         “You do that,” Elodie chuckled. She uncorked the bottle and poured some of the oil into her palm. Staring at the back of his head, she didn’t know where to start. She’d grabbed his hair before, and he’d pillowed his head on her lap and against her breasts, but this was entirely new. “Can you… slip down a little?”

         He nodded, and she reached out to guide him down to the right height. Over his shoulder, she could see that he had his palms against his thighs, not quite pressing into the skin, but definitely not relaxed. It would take time, she figured. She rubbed her hands together, spreading the oil across her palms and fingers before lifting both hands to his head.

         As she began, Fenris took a deep breath. It was almost like the way he had inhaled at her neck earlier. It only then occurred to her that he might not mind this smell because it was the one that she wore. Working the oil into his hair was easy. The water helped for that, at least. Fenris tilted his head into her hands as she worked, and when she leaned his head back to get at his bangs she could see that his eyes were closed and his expression was calm. Elodie sat up enough to kiss his forehead.

         “Mm.”

         “I’ll try to go easy with the comb,” she promised.

         Fenris nodded, but didn’t say anything. Instead he looked up at her and stretched up to kiss the underside of her chin. It was sweet, and Elodie tried not to melt down against him. The point was to be with him and calm the mess of his hair, hopefully to clear a little of his lack of confidence about how he looked, not to dissolve into a simpering Orlesian primrose at him reciprocating the affection.

         Settling back on her heels, Elodie lifted the comb from its spot on the floor and set to work. She forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand so that she would keep the tugging on his hair to a minimum. The silver-white hair did not make it easy on her. As fine as it was, it also made the cleverest knots out of itself. More than once she had to yank the comb free, marveling at how tangled such short hair could get.

         It might have been half a candle or it might have been a whole one before she was finished and combing through the relatively docile white strands. Somewhere along the way, Fenris had taken a grip on the side of the tub with both hands. His arms alone flexed, his posture was otherwise languid. As she combed his hair idly, he sank down in the tub until his chin had to be in the water.

         Then she put the comb aside. Elodie tested the water, letting her hands slip into it, but though it was comfortable on fingers cramped from using the comb, it wasn’t anything she wanted to climb into. Given that alternative, she drew her hands from the water and slid them into his hair.

         The oil made his hair a little slippery, but it helped for the sake of running her fingertips along his scalp. She pressed her fingertips through his hair towards his forehead and then drew her nails lightly against his skin as she pulled her hands back towards his neck. Fenris leaned his head along with the motion of her hands, drawing out the press of her fingers.

         Elodie reached up for his temples, and her wrists grazed his ears. Almost immediately, Fenris’ grip on the tub tightened, his knuckles going white with the effort of it. She quickly withdrew her hands.

         “Fenris?”

         “I am… alright,” he said in a low voice.

         “If that’s alright, then-”

         “Please, do not jest about this.”

         “Sorry.” A noise came out of Fenris that she didn’t recognize. “Fen?”

         “That… would you… do that again? More slowly.”

         “Rub your temples?”

         Fenris was silent a moment. “…yes.”

         Reaching forward again, Elodie did as he requested. She leaned closer to his back and pressed her fingers against his temples, rubbing slow circles into his skin. “Like this?”

         “Not… exactly.” Fenris shifted a little in the water.

         “What am I not doing?”

         His fingers released the edge of the tub, flexing a little. “It’s nothing… continue.”

         “Fenris,” Elodie frowned. She reached up and turned his head towards her, tucking his hair behind his ear.

         His teeth clamped down on his lip and his eyes pressed closed.

         What had she done?

         “Fenris,” she tried again, “if that hurt, I’m sorry. I di-”

         He leaned towards her and his lips pressed to hers, hushing her. “It did not hurt,” Fenris said, leaning his forehead against hers.

         “Alright,” Elodie replied.

         They stayed like that for a moment. Fenris brushed his nose against hers, seeming content. The steam from the water had made the room humid. He looked so comfortable in the tub that Elodie wanted to climb in with him. It was tempting, but she was worried she might still scald herself in it.

         And she’d not finished the head rub.

         “Turn back round,” Elodie said to him. “I’m not done.”

         Fenris obliged her.

         Elodie slid her fingers back into his hair, spreading them wide to keep him steady while she pressed her thumbs into the top of his spine. Fenris sucked in a breath, but that was all. When she turned her hands over, running her fingers down the back of his neck, he tipped his head back, relaxing into her grip. She brought her thumbs back up into his hairline, brushing his ears a little and-

         Fenris gritted his teeth and pressed his head back into her hands.

         What?

         She tried it again, more slowly. The tips of her thumbs brushed the back of his ears, running along them.

         Fenris lifted his hands back onto the edge of the tub. He took a deep breath as he curled his fingers around the porcelain.

         His ears. What was it that Isabela had said about an elf’s ears? Sod it all, she couldn’t remember just then, and she didn’t want to think about Isabela’s comments about elves. It would just drag her mind down the wrong path. Elodie shifted her hands, turning her palms so that she cold draw all of her fingers along his ears.

         Where his hands had been gripping they turned to clenching the edge of the tub. His knees came up against the sides of the tub. This must have been what he was trying to ask her for earlier.

         “Hawke,” he groaned. The low tone sent a rush through her, one that tightened the muscles all the way down her torso and gripped her between the hips.

         But there was that ‘Hawke’ again.

         “There’s no one else here,” she said, sat up on her knees so that she was leaning against the tub and she could brush her nose against his ear. This close, able to see over his shoulder, she could see the length of him hardening in the hot water. She wanted him to call _her_ name, not her surname. She wanted to be Elodie and not the last of the Hawkes. The length of him twitched as her nose brushed his ear.

         “A reassuring fact,” Fenris ground out. His knuckles turned white with the effort of gripping the sides of the tub.

         Turning her head, she brushed her lips against his ear. Fenris groaned, a shudder running through him. Encouraged by that, Elodie ran her tongue along the line of his ear.

         “Hawke,” Fenris gasped.

         Still Hawke.

         Fenris was fully erect and still calling her Hawke.

         “Say my name, Fenris.”

         His head turned enough that a wild green eye could fix on her, and his brow scrunched in confusion. “Say your-”

         “ _My_ name,” she said, kissing the tip of his ear.

         His eye squeezed shut. “ _Elodie_ ,” he moaned as her tongue stroked the tip of his ear.

         The sound of his voice calling her name like that sent a rush of heat through her that was warmer than the tub she was pressing against to get at him. Her thigh muscles clenched and she slid her arms around his neck and closed her lips around the tip of his ear.

         “Futis,” Fenris hissed. “Ha-” he corrected himself when her teeth nipped his ear, “Elodie!”

         “Is this alright?” she asked softly, lips brushing his ear.

         “Dei mi voluptas,” he groaned as she swiped her tongue against his ear again. His voice was low. He leaned his head back against her trustingly, tilting it to the side as though he invited her attention to his ear. She was happy to oblige. As she continued to kiss it and lave her tongue against it, Fenris’ grip on the tub slacked. His eyes slid shut.

         “Uri umo tu tangende… hic… hic bea amentia.”

         The string of Arcanum came out slow, and sounded sensual even though she could not tell what he was saying. The sound of his voice like that was drawing a reaction from her that she hadn’t expected. Her muscles fluttered as the syllables came from his lips, almost as though it was his lips that were against her and not the back of his head and the tub.

         Gently she guided his head to the other side, curious whether his reaction would be different on an untouched ear.

         When her lips found his ear, Fenris shifted in the water, arching his back and drawing from her embrace. He turned, catching her arms to keep her against the tub, and kissed her cheek. His lips were still too warm to be familiar, but the places he pressed them against – just in front of her ear and then down to the corner of her jaw – were the same as always. Elodie let her head fall enough to the side that he could continue on the path he always took when he kissed her like this. Fenris didn’t disappoint her. He kissed behind her ear and then down the side of her throat.

         The nip of his teeth surprised her.

         “Fenris?” she asked gently.

         “You will find the water to your liking,” he said, voice thick with a tone she recognized. His cheeks were flushed from more than just the heat of the bath, and his eyes were darkened as they met hers. She knew this look, this tone. It was need.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this chapter has more Tevene in it. Same reference warnings apply. I did my best to keep it somewhat “true” to a language that hasn’t been defined except by us fans. (Also, as a general note, my beloved laptop is reaching dinosaur age, and the keys sometimes stick, so if I’m missing a letter somewhere, I apologize, and you’re more than welcome to point it out! I do my best on editing, but I never have gotten a beta.)
> 
> Also, reference in here to ["Scraping By"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/505989/chapters/890160), which also references "that" winter crossing the Bannorn.  
>  
> 
> **More Tevene!**
> 
> Futis! = Fuck!
> 
> Dei mi voluptas. = You give me pleasure.
> 
> Uri umo tu tangende… hic… hic bea amentia. = I burn for your touch. This… this is madness.


	8. Chapter 8

 

         Fenris carried Hawke from the bathroom. In their wake, it looked as though there had been a battle involving the water. He was not displeased by that, or the way that she had all but passed out in the aftermath of pleasure. In his arms she shifted, as though she would walk herself to bed or any number of other improbable things.

         He got her into the large four poster and pulled the covers over her. Hawke grabbed his forearm, and he stilled.

         How many years ago had he slipped from her bed, guilty and yanking armor onto over-sensitive skin? How much had that hurt Hawke – _his Elodie_ – that she still seemed to fear it now?

         It had been bad judgment, then, that had him throwing himself at her, knowing he was not ready. Pride, too, had caused it. He could not back down from such a thing when that was what they were approaching. It had been inevitable, with the way she offered herself, and he had _known_ it too soon, but still he could not – or at the least _did not_ – stop himself.

         “The fire,” Fenris said, bending to kiss her wrist. “We will be cold soon.”

         She released his wrist with a drowsy nod, and he turned to stoke the fire with her eyes on him. “You won’t warm me further?”

         Sometimes she knew just what to say. Her words sent a rush down him, from the ear she’d had her way with to his pelvis, and he forced himself to concentrate on getting the logs into the fireplace. One of them had to be sensible or he might do her harm. “I shall warm you as much as you require,” he said, glancing at her.

         “You may not want to make that offer,” Hawke replied, turning onto her back and looking up at the canopy over her bed.

         Fenris lifted a brow, pushing up to his feet and taking the steps over to her bed. “You consider my offer insincere?”

         “Not at all,” Hawke said, looking up at him with a grin. “You’re not the sort to make empty promises.”

         He let that sink in, and it warmed him to hear those words from her mouth. If she could say such a thing, she must understand. She must believe him. He sat beside her on the edge of the bed and reached up to brush her hair from her cheek. “What, then?”

         Hawke batted her lashes at him. “We might never leave bed.”

         That got a chuckle out of him, and he leaned down to kiss her.

         “Mm… and it’s not fair to say something like that when I can’t even lift my arms to hold you.”

         “Then I shall make it easy on you,” Fenris replied. He nudged her further onto the bed so he had space and stretched out against her beneath the blankets, pulling her into his chest.

         Her head fell against him and she nuzzled his chest. Her arms slid around him and her fingers rubbed into his back.

         The sensation of it was strange, at first, almost like a shock. A jolt seemed to pass along the lines of lyrium framing his spine, tensing all the muscles before it stopped.

         And then it was gone. In the wake of that rush of energy, the release was so strong that his muscles relaxed enough to draw a groan from him.

         “Elodie…” he gasped.

         The only response she had was a murmur. She had fallen asleep.

         Warm in her embrace, her bed, but alone with his thoughts, Fenris puzzled over that sensation. He knew the feel of magic on him. It sickened him to be near some mages because of it, because they could not or did not control themselves. He could feel their pull in the lyrium. His Elodie, though a wonder, had no more magic in her than one of the books on her bookshelf. Without magic, whatever Hawke had done was something different.

         His back still tingled faintly. He closed his eyes and he could feel the lines of nerves and the flood of whatever that had been in them.

         The only time he had ever felt such a thing before it was painful.

         After the ritual, Fenris was taught to feel every piece of his body through pain given to him by either his magister or his magister’s apprentice. The other slaves were kept from him. At first it probably was a concern of losing property to the poison of the lyrium in him, but once it was clear that the lyrium had no ill effects the isolation continued as a possessive gesture of the magister. Only Danarius had been allowed to touch him freely. Even Hadriana had abided that rule, allowed to touch with her magic only when instructed or at the order of their master.

         There was something profoundly cruel about Hadriana when it concerned him. She took pleasure in inflicting pain upon him. Though she had to abide Danarius’ command in punishing him directly, it only made her more devious about it. Her cruelty required only words or will, and so she had been free to administer that at a whim. The other servants gave him sad eyes for the lack of things or the excess of things she ordered about him. Fenris had not cared for them, they were powerless to do anything.  Hadriana – even in his thoughts the name came out snarled as though a curse – delighted in watching the pity and scorn pass between the slaves and Fenris, almost as much as she enjoyed activating the lyrium as she was taught to punish him.

         There was no pain in Hawke’s touch of him, there was never any pain when she touched him. In fact the pain that always lingered in him seemed remarkably absent from his back.

         Fenris glanced down at the top of Elodie’s head.

         This would require some thinking on.

 

*

 

         Card night at the Hanged Man. Even Sebastian had been enticed to come. When he’d argued about gambling, Isabela told him to put his winnings, if he got any, into the poor box at the Chantry. He had agreed, only to regret it when Isabela grinned predatorily at him.

         Elodie wanted all of her friends to come, so long as none of them got to fighting. It had been years ago when she’d declared to them all – adding Sebastian to this after the fact – that any bloody bigotry could be solved outside the Hanged Man. Inside, they all had to abide by a truce.

         It hadn’t stopped Aveline and Anders from heading outside on breaks to argue heatedly, or Anders trying to get Merrill to do the same thing. Once upon a time Fenris and Anders had excused themselves to argue outside as well, but that had trailed off over the years.

         In fact, no one seemed as much inclined to argue anymore. Now it was all bad jokes, worse flirting, and the occasional case of moon-eyes when there were too many cups in someone.

         Tonight Elodie came in with Fenris. In the wake of having forgotten him, and accusing him that he could have come to her, neither of them seemed inclined to part. It was reassuring, having him near. Things were coming at her at all hours, and there was no time to get to the mansion to find him for help. Fenris did not mention his reasons. He also did not complain when she dragged him out to shop for more clothes to keep him from having to lounge around the mansion naked. He did, however, insist on purchasing them on his own.

         Varric was seated at their usual table. Aveline’s usual seat between Merrill and Sebastian was empty, and Isabela’s seat beside Merrill was open, but that was because she was at the bar half poured over a dangerous looking man who had a hand up the back of her tunic rather possessively. Anders was absent, as well, but that was becoming more and more the norm of things.

         “Anyone care to get ‘bela?” Elodie asked as they reached the table.

         Varric glanced over and choked out a laugh.

         “Are we even sure she will be finished in time for cards?” Fenris asked.

         “If only for the pleasure of teasing you through the rounds,” Varric replied. “She never misses that.”

         Elodie stifled a chuckle. There were no grudges at card night, even for her. When they were in a group of people, Elodie’s … whatever it was about Isabela and Fenris just wasn’t there. They had been the best of friends, once upon a time. Isabela loved to tease Bethany, and it had been nice being a big sister with someone instead of to someone while it lasted. Then after Bethany had passed… There were things that no one spoke about, and one of those was ‘since when did Hawke and Isabela get so close?’ It was a question Elodie had heard Anders grumbling about, but no one had dared ask the two of them to their faces. The answer wasn’t really important, all that mattered was that Isabela was the dirtiest incarnation of a sister Elodie could ever come up with, and while nothing could replace Bethany, Isabela certainly had made it better. Other things had helped, of course.

         And then after Leandra and Fenris things had gotten worse and weird.

         But card nights were sacrosanct.

         On nights like this, Isabela flirted with everyone from Aveline to Sebastian, and even Elodie wasn’t exempt. She stepped over to the wall and settled her broadsword into the grooves that Corff had put up specifically for ‘the Champion’s sword’ after she’d gotten her title. She wasn’t sure who used it when she wasn’t there, but it was always empty when she was here and far better than dumping her weapon on the floor with the others.

         “We won’t have enough players without her,” Merrill said. “Anders never shows anymore unless Hawke goes specifically to get him, and Aveline is getting ambushed tonight.”

          Elodie was undoing the straps of her breastplate when she heard that. Among friends, at the Hanged Man, on card nights at least, she didn’t feel the need for it. “Anders doesn’t what?”

         “Hadn’t you noticed?” Merrill asked brightly. “He only comes out of Darktown for you anymore.”

         That got an uneasy frown out of her.

         “And you barely make it out of the alienage for similar reasons,” Fenris commented.

         “It’s my home.”

         “The alienage doesn’t really scream ‘home’ to me,” Fenris said, “But for argument’s sake, it is where you live.”

         “And Darktown is where Anders lives,” Sebastian said.

         All of them paused, even Varric turned his head back towards the table. Sebastian, though loyal enough to fight at their side, still spent a lot of time praising the Maker and singing Elthina’s graces about the politics stirring and condemning mages for wanting too much. Elodie knew that Anders and Sebastian were not on the best terms. The only people who still took their differences outside to quarrel anymore were the two of them.

         And now it seemed that Sebastian knew where Anders lived.

         It wouldn’t be such a big deal if he weren’t such a white-washed Choir Boy about it all. Elodie wanted to trust him, but Sebastian was three years behind on the truce she’d called, and she needed to be certain Anders wouldn’t need help with a pack of Templars later.

         “Help me with the first round, Sebastian?” Elodie asked, flipping the latches on her breastplate closed again.

         Fenris frowned, casually leaving his sword across his back, and leaned against the pillar next to the table as though waiting for her to get out of the way. Sebastian nodded, rising to join her.

         It would seem perfectly harmless, choosing the far side of the bar. Isabela had a knee over her dashing looking man’s hip and his hand was lower than her rump. From the roll of her hips and the way she was gripping the edge of the bar, she would be busy until she got off. From the way her head was hanging back, dark hair curling against the bar as she swayed, it shouldn’t be long.

         Sebastian’s eyes found Isabela across the bar, and Elodie noticed a light flush to his cheeks.

         “Warm in here?” she asked.

         The prince coughed.

         Elodie followed Sebastian’s gaze across the bar to linger on Isabela as they waited for Corff to take notice of them. “She makes the best noise when she-”

         “Hawke!” Sebastian barked. His face was red now, cheeks and even his nose suffering a bright blush.

         She lifted a brow at him.

         “I won’t ask how you know such a thing,” Sebastian said, looking decidedly uncomfortable, “but I would ask you to refrain from such-”

         Isabela let out a throaty laugh that interrupted Sebastian even over the noise of others talking and the musicians playing at the far end of the room.

         He bit his lower lip.

         “Come on, Sebastian,” Elodie said, touching his elbow and motioning with her head for the door. “Let’s get some air for a minute.”

         Sebastian nodded and led the way to the door. Past Isabela, Elodie could see Fenris watching the two of them. He was frowning, just a little, but he didn’t move to stop her.

         Fenris did turn his head to look pointedly at her sword where she’d left it on the wall.

         Elodie knew he had a point, but there was only so much she could get away with if she wanted to get Sebastian outside without a fight. She gave a quick shrug in response before heading out the door.

         The music seemed to follow them outside, though it was more faint. It wasn’t terribly cold, but the air was cleaner and cooler than inside. Sebastian tipped his head back, taking a deep breath. Elodie watched as rolled his shoulders, surprised at how broad they seemed in the armor.

         One of the guards passed, and nodded to her. She nodded back.

         “Thank you,” Sebastian said.

         That was a bit of a surprise. Elodie glanced back at him, and found a smile waiting. “You’re… welcome.”

         “To be tempted by that which we are weakest to can be a torment.”

         “Hot and bothered instead of just embarrassed?”

         Sebastian nodded, clearing his throat.

         “Maybe a change of subject, then?”

         “I would appreciate it.”

         For a moment, she wished that Isabela were out here. Varric would do as well. Either of them would know if there was someone listening in. As it was, Elodie just shifted a little closer and made sure to keep her voice low. She liked Sebastian, he was a decent sort of fellow most of the time, and she knew that her mother had been fond of him. Her mother had been fond of all her friends, though, and Anders was one of her mother’s favorites. There was no getting around this without asking and there was no polite way to ask it. She trained her eyes on the stairwell across from them, trying to make out the dingy little stalls in the Bazaar in the darkness. “Are you going to tell the Templar?”

         “What?”

         “About Darktown.”

         “Hawke, I don’t understand.”

         Maybe the Chant had really cleared sense out of his head. Turning to look up at him. “About Anders,” she whispered at him.

         Blue eyes blinking widely, brows tilted in confusion, Sebastian mouthed the words she had said. Then he chuckled.

         It was her turn to ask, “What?”

         “You think I would turn him in?”

         “What was it you said to Fenris? ‘It’s our duty to tell the Templars’?”

         Sebastian winced at that. “What I said to him, I said to him. It was not intended-”

         “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have said it to my lover while we were all out walking in the market,” Elodie replied.

         The flush came back to his cheeks. “You and Fenris are-”

         “Sometimes I wonder about you, Sebastian. Truly wonder, I mean.”

         “I simply had not realized.”

         “Is this about me flirting with you?”

         “You must admit, your actions were a little suspicious. You did that right in front of him.”

         “Sometimes my mouth runs away with me. Fenris is fond of it.”

         Sebastian made an uncomfortable noise. The darkness of the landing in Lowtown was quiet except for some grunting that may or may not have been a sexual interlude around the corner from them. Not the best background to this discussion, but at least without the others there it was easier to speak freely – for both of them. Her views on the Chantry were complicated to say the least, but Elodie found little reason to discuss anything even remotely religious with the rest of her companions. Sebastian, in turn, was able to confide in her about all the things that seemed strange to him. The two of them were friends. Elodie took a breath and looked up at the night sky, past the smoke. Grant me patience, she asked.

         “You know, I’m glad Bethany never met you. You’d have broken her heart with talk like that.” The words were out of her mouth almost before she’d decided to speak them.

         Sebastian shifted beside her, the noise of his armor loud even with the background noise. Elodie thought he sounded a little put upon as he said, “I fail to see how I could have broken the heart of someone I’ve never met.”

         “Of course not,” Elodie replied. “But I can tell you how it would’ve gone. Bethany would have taken one look at you, heard you say three words with the letter ‘r’ in them, and she’d have been a puddle at your feet.”

         “I don’t think I can agree with you,” Sebastian said with a shake of his head. “My accent may be exotic to someone who’s never heard it before, but I’m sure your sister was a fine woman, and no such temptation would have troubled her.”

         “Then maybe you’ve been in the Chantry long enough.”

         That got a soft chuckle out of Sebastian. “Isn’t this the part where you ought to say I’ve been in the Chantry ‘too long’?”

         “No, I said what I mean. You’ve been there long enough that you’re starting to really be a Chantry brother.”

         “What I’ve done lately would suggest otherwise.”

         “Now it’s my turn to disagree.” Elodie looked over at him. He was looking down at his hands, and Elodie wondered if he was still seeing blood on the leather of his gloves. “You can only be the sort of Brother that you’re made to be, Sebastian. And it would be a bit hypocritical of the Chantry to start claiming to be pacifists, what with the Divine Marches and the whole founding-of-the-Templar. You still have your bow and arrows, and your armor. I’ve heard what the Grand Cleric had to say about Flint Company, but has Elthina ever actually condemned you for using them to defend those who need it?”

         His brows lifted at that.

         “You’re the one who told Varric you were helping people by working with me.” Elodie adjusted her gauntlets. “But then you’re also the one who said your grandfather called the bow a wise man’s weapon,” she said.

         “Th-thank you.”

         “So tell me, are you a wise man?”

         “That would be folly of me to answer, Hawke. Though I had not pictured you one for philosophical questions.”

         “The broadsword does tend to throw people off,” she replied. “But I’m not asking for great sweeping truths tonight.”

         “Then I believe I need a little clarification to answer your question.”

         “Knowing what you said to Fenris… do I have to worry about my friends around you?”

         Sebastian frowned. “ _We’re_ friends, aren’t we, Hawke?”

         “Yes. But. You have nothing to turn me in for,” she replied. “Last I checked, I can’t be imprisoned for failure to turn in an apostate.”

         “Surely you don’t-”

         “And as there are no apostates living with me, I’m under no burden to do so.” She turned to face him, folding her arms across her breastplate. “No one even asks me about them.”

         “Anders and Merrill are maleficar, Hawke. Surely you see tha-”

         “There goes that ‘surely’ again,” Elodie replied, shaking her head. “You’re not preaching right now, Sebastian, you’re having a conversation.”

         “I know that.”

         “Then listen to the words you just said. You just called Anders and Merrill maleficar. Anders, who, despite what you say about him, never hesitates to heal you when you’re bleeding. And Merrill, who brings daisy-chains to the sick children in the orphanage.”

         “Anders has taken a demon-”

         “Spirit,” Elodie corrected.

         “-into his body. One that has threatened you in the past.”

         “Anders also works himself sick and goes without to help those in need.” She couldn’t keep from balling her fists, but she kept them tight against her armor so she wouldn’t swing them.

         “Merrill uses blood magic and makes deals with demons.”

         “Has she come after your soul that I don’t know about?”

         “So you are willing to be responsible for every act that they commit?” Sebastian shook his head. “Templar have training to manage the powers of mages, and they are an entire order of people. You can’t be their watch-dog, Hawke. No one person can be vigilant all the time.”

         “Maker’s breath, how can you judge someone’s entire existence by one aspect of their life?” Elodie snapped at him.

         Sebastian had been frowning, but at her words it turned into a scowl. He did not like to hear the Maker’s name taken in vain, but in front of the others he glossed over his distaste for it. Alone, now, he let his displeasure show. “And how can _you_ ignore something so important about them?”

         The door behind them opened.

         A drunk stumbled past them, but it was enough of an interruption that Elodie forced herself to relax. She’d been just about to throw a punch, and that wasn’t fair to do.

         “You don’t need to worry about me turning in _your friends,_ ” Sebastian said.

         “They’re your friends too, Sebastian.”

         He narrowed his eyes at her, but made no reply.

         They stood in awkward silence. Both of them stared out at the street before them. The guard from earlier nodded to them as he made another slow pass.

         Sebastian mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like, ‘Maker grant me patience,’ and then sighed. “Give me a moment, Hawke?”

         Elodie turned to look at him. “Sebastian…”

         “Even friends can disagree,” Sebastian said. His voice was rougher than normal, lower. “I’ll be back in shortly.”

         She had no other answer for him, so she nodded. Elodie turned back into the Hanged Man, surprised at how similar that argument was to the way Fenris had been years ago. She shook her head as she glanced over at the bar in time to see Isabela flop back on it. Her teeth clenched her lips and Elodie could see all the way down into her bodice.

         “Well,” she said with a chuckle, “that’s quite a sight.”

         “Mm.”

         Obviously the chat had distracted her, she had barely noticed Fenris leaning by the door. Elodie started to frown as she looked at him, but he was staring at her. “Come to babysit?” she asked.

         “Even the Champion of Kirkwall could be bested by numbers if she were unarmed,” Fenris said. He sipped from the tankard of ale in his hand. Only then did he glance over at the bar. “And it’s apparently not a new sight. Norah said it has been happening just there for a few months.”

         “Keeping track of her, are you?”

         Fenris handed her his tankard. “Passing the moments of worry,” he said in a low voice.

         Elodie took the drink from him. “What is-?”

         “I will meet you at the table,” Fenris said. Then he stepped out the door, rolling his shoulders.

         With no one else to talk to, Elodie returned to the table. Varric nodded to her, and Merrill said, “Sebastian’s popular tonight.”

         “What?” Elodie asked. She set her drink down and began un-strapping her breastplate again. This time she was determined to get all the way out of it and to play some cards.

         “First you, now Fenris,” Merrill said, “can I go chat with him next? Do you think he’d like that?”

         “Now, now, Daisy,” Varric said, “Hawke was just threatening Choir Boy out of a few of his sensibilities.”

         “Is that why Fenris got all huffy and protective?”

         “He did not-”

         “I’m certain that Broody didn’t think Hawke had gone out there to rearrange the Choir Prince’s priorities for him.”

         “Priorities? Sensibilities? You mean something dirty again, don’t you Varric?”

         “Of course he does,” Elodie frowned. Finally free from the armor, she took her seat at the table, and took a long drink from Fenris’ tankard.

         “Who? Me?”

         Elodie fixed him with a look. The longer this went on, the more she wanted to start playing cards.

         “You usually mean something dirty, the language is just so thick, it never makes any sense.” Merrill picked up her glass and took a drink.

         “Now, now, Daisy, you are getting better,” Varric said. “Have you been reading those books that I lent you?”

         It was at that point that Isabela sauntered over and threw her arms around Elodie’s neck. Varric and Merrill continued their discussion of whatever steamy prose she’d been given for ‘educational purposes’, ignoring the two of them. This close, Isabela smelled like fresh sex and ale, and drawled out, “Why good evening _Champion_.”

         “Do you need a favor?” Elodie asked.

         Isabela squeezed her neck. Elodie straightened a little. It had been years since she’d been this close to the pirate, it seemed like, and ages since she’d been hugged by her. Isabela lowered her voice and said, “Obviously I’ve not been affectionate enough with you, if you think a hug means I need a favor.”

         “Most of our conversations lately have been about favors,” Elodie said, sipping more of the Maker-be-damned ale from Fenris’ mug. Getting a hug was not supposed to feel awkward. It was not supposed to feel strange to get a hug from a good friend, and yet it did. Elodie didn’t even know if it was because of the Fenris thing they had in common or if it was the more general Fenris thing.

         “I noticed,” Isabela whispered against her ear. “Come round tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll have a proper chat, huh?”

         “Sure.”

         “Well, now that’s settled,” Isabela announced. She snaked a hand under Elodie’s chin and turned her face enough to kiss her.

         Sebastian cleared his throat behind them. Elodie drew back from the kiss, pressing her lips together to avoid a grimace at the timing of it all. Fenris stood behind him with a brow arched. Both men were carrying mugs of ale enough for everyone at the table for cards.

         “I take it your previous companion was unsatisfying,” Fenris said.

         “He’s not a good kisser.”

         A new redness came to Sebastian’s cheeks as he edged around the group of them, settling the mugs he was carrying on the table before finding his seat. Varric chuckled. Elodie shifted uncomfortably, not sure how to feel in this situation. Isabela was always an affectionate friend, but it’d been years since Elodie had been on the receiving end of it. She shrugged a bit and Isabela released her shoulders just as easily as she’d taken hold of them.

         “A true shame,” Fenris said, handing a mug to Varric. “You may not, however.” He turned and held a mug out to Isabela.

         “May not what?” Isabela asked innocently, placing one hand on her hip as she took the mug from him.

         “Make up the difference with Hawke,” Fenris said simply, taking the seat beside Elodie and exchanging his tankard from her hands with a fresh one.

         “I’m just sharing the love,” Isabela said with a wink as she took her seat.

         “Endeavor to keep it to yourself.”

         “As amusingly _inspiring_ as this all is,” Varric said, “I thought we were here to play cards, not live out one of Isabela’s sexual fantasies.”

         “Diamondback or Wicked Grace?” Sebastian asked. To his credit, his voice was even despite the flush of his cheeks.

         “Spoilsports,” Isabela quipped, pulling out the cards.

 

*

 

         After Isabela’s little display at the Hanged Man, Elodie felt confused. She also felt anxious. Talking to Isabela about _it_ would be…

         It would be…

         Well, it was bound to be something.

         In her confusion she had more to drink than she normally did. She was nowhere near as slovenly drunk as she used to get in Lothering when Carver would come drag his ‘idiot sister’ back home, but she was drunker than she usually allowed herself in a stone city whose walls she occasionally painted red with the blood of her enemies.

         Baskerville had come down to escort them to Hightown, and she and Fenris were plodding up the stairs beside one another. They were quiet, mostly because Elodie was focusing on not seeming as drunk as she really was, and Fenris seemed a tad smug at his winnings from the evening. The coin purse on his belt was heavy, and there was a lazy smile on his lips that he would probably deny if asked.

         “What was it you said to Sebastian?” Elodie asked, finally coming up with something to say.

         “Something I thought he would be gratified to hear,” Fenris replied.

         “That’s not an answer,” Elodie replied.

         “What were you and Isabela whispering about before she put her tongue in your mouth?”

         “Something she thought I would be gratified to hear.” Elodie folded her arms. _Of course_ Fenris would ask about Isabela. **Of course** he would.

         “Hawke.”

         They were just coming into the market, and on top of being annoyed, Elodie felt a little tired. The armor was heavy, damnit, and there were _a lot of steps_ they’d just come up.

         “Hawke,” Fenris repeated, pausing at the top of the stairs.

         Baskerville headed past her, sniffing his way into the square. Elodie glanced back at Fenris. “Yes, Fenris?”

         “I feel I must apologize.”

         “For what?” Elodie asked, chewing on the corner of her lower lip. Somewhere it had to be written, didn’t it, that once you gained notoriety you were allowed to stop feeling foolish. There had to be some rule, somewhere, in the big… book of rules that gave you that privilege. “I was the one she kissed.”

         “Do you imagine I feel threatened by Isabela?” he asked, lifting a brow. He came closer. “The two of you are friends.”

         “Yes, we are.”

         Fenris had been the only one who hadn’t questioned her closeness with the pirate. _Of course_ this wasn’t about that. Elodie sighed. This wasn’t exactly a conversation that she wanted to have slightly-tipsy and not at home yet. She thought they’d cleared all the gangs from Hightown, but periodically new ones did spring up. She motioned with her head, and Fenris nodded. They started walking again.

         His gauntlet bumped against hers, the claws making a little metallic noise in the mostly quiet Hightown night.

         Elodie looked down at their hands, and for a moment she was struck with how similar their claw-like gauntlets were. And then she realized she’d never held his hand.

         “I believe you feel threatened by her.”

         Normally she thought herself graceful, but confronted with that, Elodie tripped. She’d have gone down from the sheer lack of balance and weight of her armor, but Fenris caught her by the arm and steadied her.

         “Hawke?”

         “We’re alone, Fenris, why are you-”

         He made an exasperated noise. “ _Elodie_.”

         “Yes, Fenris?”

         “Do you feel threatened by Isabela?”

         “Well. She has been asking about-”

         “That is not what I am referring to.”

         Elodie closed her eyes, withholding a second sigh. “I’m a little tired.”

         “I do not understand your frustration,” Fenris said. “I would like you to explain this.”

         “Fine,” she replied, “but not out here where anyone could be listening in.”

 

*

 

         Her mansion was closer. Hawke allowed her mabari to lead the way, dragging her feet as they finished the walk out. The conversation was further stalled by the two dwarves and her elven servant, all of whom had to be sorted out in one way or another before the two of them were alone. Sometimes he thought that Hawke’s servants were the children she did not have. The only one of them even remotely capable on a consistent basis was Bodhan, and the man seemed far too indulgent to head a household staff.

         Fenris hated that he thought these things. He did not like that he evaluated her servants because he knew what precision he was comparing them to. Tevinter sickened him, and he should compare nothing of his new life to what he had escaped. Hating it and feeling sickened by it was no help, he was beginning to get into a sour mood at being denied his answer, and dark thoughts only ever attracted more of them.

         Hawke was more than a bit drunk, he realized as she turned back to him, swaying slightly on her feet. There were circles under her half-closed eyes, and that was enough to cure him of his insistence that she explain herself immediately. Bodhan ushered the other two servants from sight, either to bed or about whatever tasks she had set. Fenris resigned himself to not hearing the answer that evening. Hawke rarely allowed herself such an inebriated state. Once she had told him that it was safer for everyone if she was paying attention. He respected the sentiment, though he loathed it. She deserved some relaxation. That she was drunk now meant it was unfair to press her.

         Instead, he guided her up to her chamber and pressed her into the wood of the door as soon as he got it closed behind them. Hawke surrendered to his lips willingly, head tilting back as he leaned his body into hers.

         “Thought we were supposed to talk,” she mumbled against his lips.

         “There will be time for talking tomorrow,” he said, leaning his forehead to hers. She tasted quite thoroughly of the ale from the Hanged Man, and it was not his favorite way to taste her kiss. He stripped his gauntlets off, dropping them on the floor to the side of them, and began working on the buckles and catches of her armor.

         Hawke’s hands got in the way.

         Fenris frowned and brushed them aside to continue with his work, but she brought them back between them.

         “Hawke.”

         “ _Elodie_ ,” she corrected.

         “Elodie,” he sighed. “Must you-”

         She lifted her hands up closer to his face. “Help.”

         Fenris blinked at that. He looked at her hands. They were still covered in her gauntlets. That must have been what she was trying to do.

         “I want to touch you without these,” she said, wiggling her fingers at him. “Sorry to interrupt.”

         It only took a few moments to undo the buckles at her wrists, and then her gauntlets joined his on the floor. “If you try to touch me now, we’ll never get out of this armor,” he warned.

         “Fine,” she sighed at him, then leaned forward and kissed him. “I’ll behave.”

         Fenris managed not to wince into the kiss, though he hated the ale-taste as much as he hated hearing Hawke say things like that. His sour mood threatened to make a rather vicious comeback at hearing it out of her mouth, so he concentrated on ridding them both of their armor. It did not take long before the difficult pieces were removed.

         Her hands settled on his shoulders before he could move back to give her space to finish undressing for bed.

         “Will you take this off for me?” she asked, fingers plucking at the leather vest he wore beneath his armor.

         “We both have more to take off,” he reminded her.

         “Yes,” she acknowledged with a drawl, “but I want you to take this off.”

         “Haw-”

         Her grip tightened in his vest.

         “ _Elodie_ ,” he conceded, “I am in no mood for-”

         “I want to touch you,” she replied. Her hands moved to undo the first of the buttons keeping the vest closed, but she only opened the first two before sliding her hands in along his neck. “I want my hands on your skin.”

         The warmth of her hands against his skin was almost a shock.

         “Please?” she asked, fingers tugging at him gently to bring him back against her as she leaned back against the door. He let her pull him and was rewarded by her hands dipping into the collar of the vest.

         A shiver raced down his back as her fingertips brushed across the lyrium lining his spine. Fenris leaned into her fully, bracing his arms against the door behind her.

         One arm left his neck to wrap around his torso, and Hawke pulled him against her. “Please Fenris,” she said, lowering her lips to his neck.

         Just how much had she had to drink at the Hanged Man? The hand still on his neck tightened and a rush of fear threatened in him, only to be overwhelmed by the tingling feeling in his lyrium as she stroked her hand down.

         “Elodie,” he groaned out as she pressed her fingertips into his back. Her head stayed tucked against his neck, lips pressing kisses to his skin. Each time her soft lips brushed a curve of the lyrium his hands flexed on the wood of the door.

         The arm around his middle was strong, and it held him up when his knees went weak. Panic threatened at the heaviness that was coming over him, but the tingling pleasure that was rushing through him overcame it. Fenris leaned into her trustingly and let himself enjoy her attention.

         Hawke’s fingers slowed, and her lips came heavier against his neck.

         If Hawke had not been drunk, it might have lasted longer, Fenris thought. She had only been drunk in his presence while they were together once before, and he had likened her surrender to inebriation to the way she was when she came out of a berserker rage. All her energy slowed down, and she needed rest. More than once they had to pause just far enough away from the carnage for her to take what she called a ‘power nap’ before they could continue about their business.

         Now she seemed just as she had the last time she had been truly drunk. She was boneless and passed out. Her face pressed into his neck, nose nuzzling his throat, and the arm around his middle held on tightly while the other went limp with her hand down the back of his tunic.

         His body still tingled, and he kept them against the door with his weight, unsure if he would be able to make his knees work yet. This was the second time that she had fallen asleep with her hands on him. And that curious pleasure that he felt when she touched his markings sang through him.

         Tomorrow, when she was awake, he would ask her to do this again. When he did not have to carry her to bed, he would be able to feel all the things that her hands made him feel.

         A sleepy mumble against his neck interrupted his thoughts, and Hawke’s hand fisted in the back of his vest.

         He felt a pulse of pleasure in his back, and he could feel his knees again. Carefully he straightened up, pulling her against him and removing them from the door. It was not difficult to get her over to the bed, but it was difficult to get her arm from his middle. Sometimes his Hawke clung when she slept. Tonight seemed no exception. Rather than struggle against her, he pulled the blanket over them and turned them on their sides.

         Thankfully, sleep was not far from him either.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... adult situations ahead. 
> 
> (This was originally a KMeme prompt response, afterall.)

         Elodie woke slowly, surprised to find herself dressed and twined around Fenris. It was a lovely way to wake up, but she rather preferred to be wearing less when it happened. He was still mostly dressed, leggings still on and his vest on his shoulders but open in the front. Her head felt either too small or too big, and her arm was stiff where it was locked around Fenris’ waist.

         Tucking her nose against his throat, she could feel him wake up. His muscles tensed from his neck down to his feet and then released. It was the same motion as every morning. All Elodie had managed to figure without asking him was that he was checking himself – likely to be sure he was not bound. When he had come back to her bed, the first morning when he had done it, he remained stiff at her side, as though he was disoriented. She woke to find his green eyes staring at her with an expression she thought was awe.

         Now, Fenris pressed against her, pushing her onto her back, and his mouth found hers. The kiss was lingering. His kiss tasted like the cheap wine from the Hanged Man, but she welcomed even that taste delivered by him. She parted her lips to him and his tongue swept into her mouth.

         His forehead pressed against hers, and his lips curled in a smile. “Good morning,” he said softly, “Elodie.”

         The way that he said her name, low and almost a growl, told her exactly what he was thinking. His fingers tugged at the leather vest she was still wearing.

         “Good morning Fenris,” she replied, kissing his upper lip. “Why are we dressed?”

         “I believe we were having a disagreement,” Fenris said. His forehead remained against hers while his fingers made short work of loosening the laces on her vest.

         “Are we still disagreeing?” Elodie asked.

         Fenris chuckled, pressing his lips to hers again. His hands pulled her vest apart and moved back to stroke her ribcage. “What do you think?”

         Elodie fought the giggle that wanted to come out of her, and helped him get the vest off her arms. She wrapped them around his neck when they were free, which threatened to get in the way of how his fingers were tugging loose the wrap she kept around her breasts.

         “No,” Elodie groaned in reply as he got the bindings loose around her chest. Being unbound felt almost mesmerizing after being tied down for so long.

         “Good,” Fenris said. He tugged at the cloth impatiently as he unwound it from around her and shifted his body, lowering his lips to her neck.

         She scrunched her brow together, trying to recall just exactly what it might have been about and-

         The cloth was finally free, loosened and then tugged down around her waist, and Fenris cupped her breasts in his hands. He squeezed them together as his lips found their way low enough that he could close his teeth over the swell of one.

         Whatever they had been arguing could wait. Fenris obviously thought so, and she had absolutely no objections to it. Elodie moaned softly in encouragement as Fenris laved his tongue across where he had bitten.

         A loud, sharp rap on the bedroom door threatened to drive itself through Elodie’s head into the mattress beneath her. Muffled voices followed, one of them was low and masculine, and then there was an indignant squeak that could only be Orana.

         Fenris stilled against her. His whole body tensed. “ _Fasta vass_ ,” Fenris hissed angrily.

         “What is-?”

         “Truly, this business is urgent and cannot wait.” The door swung open, and an armored figure came in.

         “The mistress IS NOT DECENT!”

         In all the commotion, all Elodie could think was that those were the most forceful words she’d ever heard Orana say. They were also the last words, as the two intruding bodies stopped short, undoubtedly at the sight of her and Fenris half naked and tangled up in her bedsheets.

         “Ch-Champion,” Cullen stammered out.

         “Knight-Captain,” Elodie replied, at a loss for what else to say when faced with… such a grand interruption.

         “I warned you,” Orana sighed.

         “I-I… did not mean to…”

         “ _Out_ ,” Fenris growled. He accentuated the command with a pulse of his lyrium. His entire body lit blue.

         For a moment Cullen’s eyes widened, and he seemed to want to say something, but Fenris ground his teeth together, and Orana boldly plucked at his arm. Cullen turned and headed as quickly back through the door as he’d come in. Once he was out, Orana swept a very low – almost groveling, which troubled Elodie to no end – bow and pulled the door hastily shut behind them.

         A twinge of pain drew Elodie back to the tense body atop hers. Any traces of the seductive Fenris that had been working her clothes off were gone. He was tense, his grip on her breasts was too hard, and he was grinding his teeth together.

         “That was definitely not how I expected this morning to go,” Elodie tried. “I don’t have any templar scheduled until-”

         A rough kiss cut off her words. Fenris squeezed her breasts again, far too tight, and the kiss broke when she winced in pain.

         All at once, Fenris sat up, yanking his hands from her. “Hawke, I…” he began, but hung his head.

         After several moments of trying to catch his eye that Fenris thwarted by hiding in his hair, Elodie gave up. The mood was wrecked, thoroughly. “I guess that’s what happens when Bodhan takes a day off. Imagine what I’ll have to endure when he finally leaves.”

         “Bodhan is leaving?” Fenris asked, a frown pulling down his lips.

         “I told you, didn’t I?” Elodie said, lifting her hands to his knees. She stroked his legs before giving him a gentle nudge. “He’s worried about what will happen to Sandal with all this political hot-beddery. Said something about traveling to Orlais.”

         Obligingly, Fenris climbed off her. He sat on his side of her bed and stared at the wall. “That is… I had not realized.”

         “I think you were a bit preoccupied at the time,” Elodie said, sitting up. The shift in position made her breasts hurt, more than just the prolonged hours of being bound, and she thought Fenris might have actually managed to really bruise her. A swig of a healing drought would take the worst of that away, and it would be better than him feeling guilty about it later. She knew from experience that Fenris was worried he would truly hurt her, despite her ability to handle anything short of a magical fisting that he might do. She gathered up the bandage from around her waist and rose to rewrap it.

         Fenris made an agreeing noise.

         “So, what’s on for today?” she asked, crossing to the corner where the mirror stood to get the bindings on correctly. “Since we obviously can’t be left alone. I’m sure I’ll need to see to whatever it is that Cullen-”

         An annoyed growl came out of Fenris.

         Elodie resisted her urge to apologize for the Knight-Captain. Cullen would just have to handle that one on his own. “It’s bound to be at least _a little_ important, if he brought the news himself. He has subordinates for that sort of errand running.”

         “Do the templar often bring news straight to your bedchamber?” Fenris snapped.

         Elodie quickly bit her lip on the snide remark that was _dying_ to come out. Now was not the time to be annoyed that his mind could be so jealous as to think that she would- Well. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t, that was all, not when they were together. Finished with the binding, she stepped over to the bed and retrieved her vest. She looked him over as she pulled it on.

         What she saw didn’t look good. His back was stiff and straight, and his fingers were fisted in the blanket so tightly that his knuckles were white. He was staring at his knees the way he always looked at the ground just beyond his feet when he was discouraged or feeling guilty.

         Best to head this off at the pass.

         “The only person who joins me in my chamber is you, Fenris.”

         His head lifted a little and his grip loosened on the blankets.

         “Even if you are a hard-headed prat some of the time,” she conceded.

         “You mock me,” he said softly.

         “What purpose would that serve?” Elodie asked, rounding the bed. Fenris still stared down, but it was at her waist now. “I much prefer _getting along_ with you.”

         His lips twisted in a little smile that she could make out even with his bangs obscuring most of his face, but he shook his head, still looking down.

         Oh, that would not do.

         Lowering into a crouch, Elodie finally caught his eye. When their eyes met, Fenris moistened his lips. It was a tick that she’d noticed he’d picked up. It only happened when he was trying to decide how to phrase something.

         Reaching out, she put her hands on his knees. “So, what’s on for today?” she asked again.

         “Hawke,” he grumbled.

         “ _Elodie_ ,” she corrected, moving forward to lean against the bed between his legs. She let her hands slide up his thighs.

         “ _Elodie_ ,” he grumbled, as though he grudged her request that he use her name. Beneath her fingers his thighs tensed, almost like a shiver.

         She pressed her palms into his skin, leaning forward to kiss his bare stomach. “What are you going to do today, Fenris?” she asked against his skin.

         “You have-”

         “I asked about you,” Elodie said, looking up at him as she undid the laces of his leggings. He was still hard, even if he was angry, and she hated to think of him hobbling around on whatever errand he’d yet to tell her about and possibly getting hurt.

         “But you are-”

         “Not what I asked,” she chided gently. She nipped his ribs with her teeth. Fenris cut himself off, sucking in a sharp breath. She leaned up as she tugged the laces loose and pressed her lips to his sternum.

         “I have… mercenary work,” Fenris said. He lifted a hand, hesitantly, and brushed her hair from her face.

         Elodie turned her head into his hand as she tugged his leggings open, fingers brushing against the hard length of him that was trapped within. Fenris sucked in another ragged breath. “Elodie,” he murmured. He spoke her name slowly, as though he were trying to come up with more to say.

         His fingers curled around her cheek, stroking her skin too gently. Elodie turned her head to press a kiss against his palm. “With whom?” she prompted. Beneath her lips, his palm twitched.

         She guided his erection from his leggings, nuzzling his hand once more before she moved her lips back to his torso. “Tell me, Fenris,” she said between kisses.

         “Varric,” Fenris sighed out. His hand lowered cautiously to touch her hair. His fingers twitched as she reached the tip of him and slid her mouth around him.

 

*

 

         The night before, this had not been his intention.

         Hawke often had better ideas than what he intended, however, and his intentions had been thwarted by morning intruders. He was afraid his touch would be too rough, almost too tense to enjoy her mouth wrapped around him. It did not seem to matter to Hawke, and his body agreed with her. Despite his worries, his body surrendered to her. To ease his mind of worry, Fenris leaned back on his hands. It did nothing to ease his returning desire to put his hands on her, but it kept him from fisting his hands in her hair.

         She had only done this once before, and that had been three years ago. He had not let her finish him, unwilling to do so without feeling more of her. Now he was almost worried to touch her after how he had clutched at her and-

         Hawke’s fingers stroked his thighs as her mouth slid along his erection, and there was nothing else to think of but the hot wetness of her mouth surrounding him and how her tongue curled around him as she worked and how she _sucked_ at him and-

         When he lost himself to the pleasure of her, every inch of the lyrium in his body lit. What thoughts he had of that morning left and there was nothing in all of Thedas but the woman between his legs and the electric feeling of his release as it coursed though him. Everything was that, whiteness and pleasure and more, more, more.

         He broke beneath the force of it, loosing himself in her mouth.

         Spent, he sagged back onto his hands. His whole body felt weak in the wake of release, but he kept his eyes trained on her face as she slid him from slowly her mouth. She sucked as she did so, her tongue brushing him clean. Once her mouth was free, she lifted a hand to her lips almost daintily.

         “Swallow it.” The sound of his voice was almost foreign to him it was so low. He did not realize he wanted her to do that until the words had left his mouth, but he did.

         Her gray eyes looked up at him, brows lifted in surprise.

         Cautiously, he lifted a hand and brushed her hair back over her ear. “Swallow,” he repeated.

         Hawke sat up a little straighter on her knees and her hand lowered from her lips as she did just as he asked and swallowed what was in her mouth. Fenris slid his fingers into her hair, careful to keep control of his strength, but was thwarted when her tongue slid across her upper lip. His grip tightened and he leaned down, pressing his lips to hers in a rough kiss.

         Fenris could taste Hawke in the kiss, and he thought there was still that lingering taste of the ale from the Hanged Man, but there was something more. It could only be the taste of his release, and he felt a strange swell of… something knowing that was what it was. He lifted his other hand so he could cup her cheeks in his palms.

         She rocked back a little onto her shins when he leaned forward. When he took her cheeks she lifted her hands to cover his wrists, holding his hands there. She pressed her forehead to his and took a deep breath as their lips parted. “ _Maker_ ,” she breathed.

         “Mm?” Fenris replied, closing his eyes at the pleasant tingling from her kiss. Her mouth was truly some sort of wonder.

         She smiled slowly, almost as though she were nervous, “I love the sound of your voice.”

         He wondered for a moment why that should be cause for nerves, but his mind was too far gone for any serious contemplation of it. He kissed her again, more slowly. He had to find something to say, it was inexcusable that he not. That had been… she had…

         “About… What you said you last night…”

         “Mm?” she replied, hands rubbing his thighs gently.

         “That… we might never leave bed if I warmed you as much as you require.”

         “Yes?” She kissed his chin. He felt a tingle in the lyrium there.

         “It would seem,” he offered softly, “that the same is true in reverse.”

         Hawke kissed his lips gently. He could feel the smile stretching across them. “Quite a pair we are.”

         “A pair of what?” Fenris asked, kissing her forehead. He reached for her breast bindings, but she stopped his hands. “Elodie?”

         “You can reciprocate tonight,” she said, turning her head to kiss each of his wrists in turn.

         Fenris frowned. His lazy thoughts quickly became more acute, though in the wake of the pleasure she’d given him he could not find it in him to be angry. Annoyed, certainly, but not any amount of rage. He was disturbed by her refusal. Surely she could not have done _that_ and been unaffected. That would be-

         She was not-

         He could not even finish the thought.

         Hawke kissed him again and then slid back so that she could climb to her feet. “Going to have to change though,” she said with an awkward cough.

         “Change?” Fenris asked, reaching down to tuck himself back into his leggings.

         “My smalls are wet.” The words came out normally, but Hawke jerked to a stop halfway over to the wardrobe, as though she hadn’t meant for those precise words to come out of her mouth. She glanced at Fenris quickly, and her cheeks flushed. She hurried the last two steps to the closet. “Can’t go down to talk shop… like this,” she said quickly, tugging the doors open and busying herself so that he could not see her face.

         No doubt the blush was stronger.

         Not for the first time, he cursed the morning. Her mouth had changed the course of it, but still the time was taken from them. Fenris would have preferred to explore her blushing condition more thoroughly.

         He watched her as she rummaged about in the wardrobe, letting his eyes trace the curves of her in the leather until she straightened. Then he rose and redid the laces on his leggings.

         It seemed there would always be more he wished to do with his Elodie.

         The thought did not disturb him.

 

*

 

         She and Fenris cleaned themselves. Fenris went ahead and put on his armor, and fixed the sword to his back before they made their way down. Orana was waiting at the base of the stairs and informed them that she had asked the Knight-Captain to wait in the library.

         From the look that Fenris gave the half-open library door, it was a good thing he seemed to intend to head out immediately to find Varric. “I am not sure how long this will require,” Fenris said, touching her arm to draw her to a stop before she headed into the library.

         “Varric is rather hard to stand up,” Elodie replied, “though I warn you, I could get jealous.”

         His lips quirked in something that was not quite a smile, and Elodie wondered if she hadn’t ought to have let him have his way with her upstairs. Her brain certainly hadn’t caught up with the rest of her. Fenris never came out and said it, but Varric could be a sensitive subject when it came to the topic of jealousy.

         Still, he lingered with his hand on her elbow. His gauntlets were hanging on his belt, and she could feel the warm, rough texture of his calluses against her skin.

         “So I shouldn’t wait for you to have dinner, then?” she asked.

         “Likely not,” Fenris replied. He pulled her closer, and his lips brushed her forehead. “But I prefer the warmth of your bed.”

         Had his lips not pressed to hers once his mouth was finished with the words, Elodie might have said something very silly. Happily, the kiss did all her talking for her. She reached up to grip Fenris by the sides of his breast plate – experience told her this was the only way to keep bare hands from getting pricked or cut on his armor – and pulled him against her.

         Fenris responded in kind. His free arm latched around her waist and pulled her hips into his as his tongue delved into her mouth.

         After a too-brief moment, Fenris bit her lips gently.

         Despite having been the one to suggest there were things to be done today, Elodie sighed as the kiss ended.

         “Tonight,” Fenris said in a low voice. It was seduction and promise all at the same time, and Elodie nodded as he released her waist and reached up to loosen her fingers from his armor.

         Elodie rolled her shoulders back and took a deep breath. It always felt a little colder when Fenris left the room, and-

         Fenris swatted her rump with the back of his hand as he headed for the front door. Orana squeaked as he did it, but followed after him to close the door once he’d left.

         Alone, and unable to help the grin on her lips, Elodie turned into the library. Cullen stood away from the door, contemplating the books on one of the shelves with a guilty hunch to his shoulders that reminded Elodie distinctly of Carver. She couldn’t quite bring herself to hate the man, despite all the nonsense that morning, and shook her head at such an indulgent sentiment. “Good morning, Knight-Captain,” she greeted as she entered.

         There was a guilty look to match the set of his shoulders, and Cullen was still fighting a blush as he turned. He was true Fereldan pale, just like Aveline, and the mortification showed brightly on his cheeks. “Champion,” he acknowledged stiffly. “I am truly sorry to have intruded on you in… at, that is… such a time. I was not aware…”

         Elodie lifted a brow at him, confused for a moment, but no. Cullen was not one of her good friends, so he had no reason to know. In deference to Fenris, she didn’t exactly advertise her relationship to the majority of Kirkwall. “That I had a lover?”

         The L-word seemed to make Cullen fidget a little. “That you were busy this morning. But no, you are correct,” he said, “I was equally unaware that you were… spoken for.”

         “We don’t exactly publicize it,” Elodie said.

         Cullen seemed to relax a little. “You _have_ done a rather skillful job at avoiding some of the less… desirable associations among the nobles over the years.”

         “Listen to the Fereldan talk about Kirkwall high society,” Elodie replied, her good humor still fixed in place. “Are you speaking from experience? You do manage to make a rather dour looking presence when you haunt the season.”

         “I could well do without such wastes of my time,” Cullen said, frowning. “But the Knight Commander has even less time to mix with the nobility. I am there only in her stead.”

         “But you are there,” Elodie replied. “And more than once you’ve leant me a hand avoiding those undesirable associations you mentioned.”

         “Any assistance I could have leant was purely coincidental,” Cullen said, offering a little smile. The slight change in expression made him seem younger. “It is as much my duty as my commander’s proxy to keep an eye on the Champion as it is anyone else at such a gathering.”

         “Say what you like,” Elodie said, feeling the first crack start in her good humor. Cullen was there to keep tabs on the nobility, and the Knight Commander was no great ally of hers to keep her from such a watch-list. “But I can’t imagine you came here and interrupted my morning to chat about society events.”

         “I fear you are correct, Champion,” Cullen said. The smile left his face, and the gravity of his expression returned to harshen his features. He reached into his belt and took a letter from one of the pouches. “I bring correspondence from the Knight Commander.”

         “It must be quite important for you to bring it yourself,” Elodie said, keeping a frown from her features. Her introduction to the Knight Commander and the subsequent encounters with the woman gave Elodie conflicting impressions. At one meeting Meredith could seem grateful to see Elodie, but the next Meredith seemed to regard the Champion as little better than a renegade apostate. Elodie had been raised to protect good mages – her father and Bethany her first examples – but she was no friend to those who had lost their path.

         Her stomach clenched as she thought that. Whenever she did, her mind supplied Quentin, and her eyes were drawn to where she knew her mother’s room was. It was strange, but she knew where her mother’s room was located no matter where she was in the house.

         Cullen offered her the letter, and it looked just as official as she expected something from the desk of the Knight Commander to look. “She requested that I deliver it to you personally,” Cullen said. “It is a matter of some delicacy.”

         Elodie cracked the seal and scanned the letter quickly.

         “I’m sure,” she replied, quirking a brow. “Though I’m not… exactly sure what was so delicate about her asking me to come to her office… especially as she seems to have no urgency in the matter.”

         “What?”

         “See for yourself,” Elodie replied, offering Cullen the open letter.

         His hazel eyes darted across the contents quickly, almost as though he were afraid that he might be caught at reading the correspondence, and then his brows furrowed. “I… don’t quite know what to say, Champion.”

         He held the letter back out for her, and Elodie took it, folding it closed. Something was amiss here. She watched Cullen for a long moment, but the serious expression on the man’s face seemed impervious to her scrutiny.

         “Well, as it so happens,” she said, “I think I can make it by this afternoon.”

         Cullen nodded slowly to that. “I appreciate your timely attention to the Knight Commander’s request, Champion.” His lips pressed together for a moment, and then he added, “And please, accept my sincerest apologies for this morning.”

         “Do I look angry to you?”

         “Champion?”

         “No, I mean it,” Elodie said. “You were there in the Keep when I took off the Arishok’s head. I know, because Varric has the most ridiculous story about how you skipped back to keep your skirts out of the blood.”

         “I don’t see what that has to do with-”

         Elodie pointed at her face. “Do I look even _remotely_ like I did that day?”

         “No,” Cullen said, lifting both brows. “Not… at all.”

         “If you are truly contrite,” she said, “think of a way to apologize to Fenris.”

         The blush returned to Cullen’s cheeks. His eyes widened at that. “To… Fenris…”

         “He was the one who was upset,” Elodie said, “though you may want to wait a few days until he’s properly cooled off about it.”

         “I will… take that under advisement.”

         There was a soft knock on the door, and Orana peeked her head in. “Mistress, will you and the Knight-Captain require refreshments?”

         “Actually-”

         “My apologies, again,” Cullen interrupted gently. “But I will have to refrain. I need to return to the Gallows.”

         “I suppose not, then, Orana,” Elodie replied.

         “Thank you for the hospitality, Champion,” Cullen said, bowing his head slightly to her. “If you will excuse me, I have other duties to attend to.”

         “Of course, Knight-Captain.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always found it amusing that Bodhan says all the correspondence comes while Hawke is away. All that really has to mean is that Bodhan was not at the mansion when the letter arrived. If the section with Cullen seems confusing here, I’m glad. (Yeah, I know that’s weird.) I’m trying to illustrate Meredith’s off-kilter reaction to things getting worse as the lyrium idol affects her increasingly. Cullen talks about how he defended her when people were saying she was cazy, and I sort of wanted to **see** that. Also, I hope you all enjoyed Cullen’s reaction to Fenris. As a Templar, having an addiction to lyrium, it can’t be easy to be confronted by a walking, talking, sexually active form of it. (I seriously think Cullen is the whipping boy of the Dragon Age universe for his poor, misguided crushes.)
> 
> No Tevene translations this chapter, I think the only thing used is a bit obvious. 
> 
> The letter in question in this chapter is this one:
> 
> ~
> 
> __  
> Champion,
> 
> _I require your assistance in a matter of great urgency. Please report to the Templar Hall in the Gallows at your earliest convenience._
> 
> _Sincerely,  
>  **Knight-Commander Meredith**_
> 
> ~
> 
> It’s the start of the quest “On the Loose”. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isabella-type language rating in this one.

* * *

 

 

         Corff said Isabela was still upstairs, as far as he knew, when Elodie got to the Hanged Man shortly after finishing off her own breakfast. Knowing the pirate’s land-locked habits, Elodie went up. Isabela was still in bed when Elodie pushed the door open in full armored regalia. Her bed partner stared wide-eyed and froze stiff, as though he’d been caught doing something naughty. With the way he was tangled around Isabela, that might not be too far from the truth, but Elodie had no right to throw stones. Especially not that morning.

         She felt a little guilty for a moment, and wondered if this is how Cullen had felt, but Isabela seemed only to have been sleeping. Isabela was not, however, pleased to be disturbed earlier than lunch.

         “What time is it anyway?” Isabela grumbled. “And why didn’t you knock?”

         “I never knock,” Elodie replied, “according to all the stories all I ever do is break down doors and save virgins from sacrifice.”

         “There are no virgins in here, Kitten,” Isabela groaned, flopping face-first into a very questionable looking pillow beside the stone-statue her bed partner had become, “but mummy’s hung over. And naked. If you’ve not come to join us-”

         “Sadly no.”

         “-could you find it in your well-intentioned heart to get me a round from Corff while I put on some clothes?”

         “Sure. No quickies before breakfast, though, we may need our strength today.”

         “Yes, _Champion_ ,” Isabela drawled. A bare, tan hand lifted and flapped at her. “Now go. Make with the breakfast.”

         Elodie turned and headed out, withholding her chuckle.

         “And close the door!” Isabela called after her.

         Obliging her friend, Elodie swung it shut before she headed downstairs. She was a tad surprised. Usually Isabela bedded people who had a tongue in their heads. Tongues, the pirate had demonstrated once, were very useful even if they weren’t used for conversation. This one had seemed a bit… dull. Elodie found her way to the bar and ordered a breakfast for Isabela. Corff had laughed and brought out ‘the usual’ as he called it.

         The food made Elodie realize she was spoiled. It smelled more questionable than usual, and it made her long for the food at the estate. Even the food in Lothering had smelled better than this. Her mother never cooked like a Fereldan, and the ingredients were always fresh.

         A warm arm wrapped around her neck, and Elodie clenched a fist to dislodge whoever it was when Isabel kissed her cheek. “You do realize that this is a conversation better had when I’m relaxed, don’t you? I crack under social pressure like one of those porcelain things strewn about your big fancy house.”

         “I’m sure you’ll be alright, ’bela,” Elodie said.

         “I’m sure I will too,” Isabela said, giving her a squeeze before sliding onto the stool beside her, “so long as you don’t decide today’s the day you’re going to put all of your impressive strength into knocking my teeth out.”

         “What?”

         “Come on, Kitten,” Isabela said, snagging the cup that went with her breakfast and taking a long drink of whatever was inside it. She made a face but took a second swig anyway. “We’ve been dancing around this more than I do in some of my duels. I love you, but you can get a bit possessive.”

         Her cheeks flushed at the recollection of the first time they had that particular conversation, and Elodie looked away. “How do I go from being possessive to hitting you?”

         “Fenris,” Isabela said in a low, soft voice.

         That got Elodie to turn and look at her, but Isabela had tucked into her food. “Why would- am I really that possessive?”

         “All signs point to yes, Kitten.”

         Elodie started to contest that, but stopped herself. Isabela might not have a head for strategy – on land anyway – and she didn’t know a thing about politics, but the woman knew people. She was probably right. Elodie sighed.

         “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you’re sort of the type. It suits you.”

         “Why are we talking about this again?”

         “Because the two of us are close, or were close. I’d rather it go back to being like it was before I slept with him. And before you ask, I know it was him that bothers you, because I’ve slept with Anders, and Merrill, and I’d have had my way with Sebastian already if you hadn’t bet me about Corff.”

         Elodie wasn’t sure even Isabela could manage to sway Sebastian, but she didn’t argue the point. “… so maybe it is.”

         “See? Was that hard?”

         “But how do you expect this to go away or get better? It’s not… we weren’t _together_ when you and he… when you two…”

         “It was sex, Hawke.”

         “I know.”

         “He’s good at it.”

         Resisting the urge to snap at that, Elodie couldn’t keep from flinching.

         “Is he less good at it when he does it with you?”

         “Of course not.”

         “Then what’s with that face?”

         “You’ve… you and he-”

         “This isn’t going to get better if you can’t even say it.” Isabela set her fork down and reached over to take Elodie’s chin in one hand, settling the other on top of her head. “Fucked,” she said, helping to move Elodie’s mouth to make the word. “It’s not hard, see?”

         “Fine. You fucked him.” Elodie drew a breath, waiting for it. Isabela had no shame in her partners, she chose them herself. She also had no shame in telling who was good or bad, what they had done that was special or boring.

         But Isabela had never said a word about the sex with Fenris beyond a very standard, very bland ‘he’s good’.

         “Stop that,” Isabela said. She released Elodie’s face and patted her cheek. “Your face may stick that way, and then all the statues they make of you will end up with that constipated look. You don’t want Varric to start explaining it, I promise.”

         “Stop what?”

         “Making that face like I’m about to say something so shocking it’s painful.”

         “I am not.”

         “You are too,” Isabela said, spearing the sausage on her plate with her fork. “And don’t start that cycle, please.”

         Elodie sighed. “Fine, but I’m not.”

         “I’m not falling for the bait this time, Hawke. You are, you look like you’re expecting bad news.”

         “What bad news?”

         Isabela lifted the sausage to her lips and took a slow bite out of it. Elodie frowned, wondering who she was putting a show on for, but didn’t ask. Instead she propped her cheek on one hand and planted her elbow against the bar. “Is-a-bell-a,” she cooed.

         “How should I know? It’s your expression.” Isabela shrugged as she chewed on the sausage.

         Elodie rolled her eyes.

         “It doesn’t matter, if you’re not ready to ask. Besides, you’re not angry at me.”

         “What?”

         Isabela swallowed the end of it, and said, “You’re not. I sleep with just about _everyone_. Fenris is the one who’s picky. So him leaving you and sleeping with me has you unsettled, even now that he’s come back. Because he had to leave for some reason, and if there was a reason once, there could be a reason again-”

         “That’s not-”

         “- or maybe it’s a pride thing. Not that you’ve really had much cause for it before with the way everyone idolizes you, but to have had to share something with someone like _me_ -”

         “You _know_ I don’t think that sort of-”

         “-whatever the problem, I may be a part of what bothers you, but I can’t actually fix it. You forgave me ages ago, or you’d have turned me in to one of Castillon’s men by now.”

         “I’d never do that.”

         “Never say never, Hawke,” Isabela said. “I came back with the relic against all reason. If that’s not cause for some generalized faith that anything can happen, I don’t know what is. You need to talk to Fenris about why you’re so angry.”

         “I’m not angry,” Elodie insisted.

         “Whatever you say, Kitten.” Isabela took another bite of her breakfast. “Now why did you come to chat in full armor? Do we need to go threaten someone?”

 

*

 

         In the wake of their morning conversation, and because she was given the lead on the skiff they took across the bay, Isabela kept her commentary strictly on Aveline’s love life, much to Sebastian’s chagrin. Every comment about what Aveline ought to be doing to Donnic brought a renewal to the blush that the sort-of Brother wore on his cheeks.

         Elodie wished she could help out, recalling his words at the Hanged Man, but couldn’t think of anything other than a cryptic description that they were all going to meet the Knight Commander of the Templar on ‘urgent business’. Thankfully for Sebastian, the wind was strong, and they crossed the bay in record time.

         Unfortunately, Isabela had as many comments about the positions of the statue as she had about Donnic, Aveline’s thumb, and the Blooming Rose. By the time they were nearing the steps to the Templar Hall, Sebastian had actually begun to recite some part of the Chant out loud. Both of them were a nice distraction from Knight-Captain Cullen, who gave a stiff nod in their direction when the four of them headed across the Gallows Courtyard. When Sebastian started to call to him, Cullen looked hastily away, calling something to the little knot of Templar recruits stationed in the shade by him.

         Elodie let him have his evasion, knowing she’d like some time if the situation were reversed. A careful question about the anatomy of one of the statues that had it’s face hidden launched Isabela into a discussion about bondage devices in Antiva that one might come across, and Sebastian groaned and started in on the Canticle of Trials. Elodie was fairly certain that Aveline had noticed all of that – there was little her other adopted sister missed when it came to that sort of thing – but all were kept distracted until they reached the stairs leading to the Templar Hall.

         It was eerie inside the Templar Hall. There wasn’t enough noise, and the Templar that stood at guard were all in full armor. It made them faceless, skirt-wearing (her mind-voice sounded a lot like Varric when she thought of that one) guardians. If the armor class was the same they were impossible to distinguish from one another.

         A hollow-sounding, “Hail, Champion,” greeted Elodie each time she passed one of the silver-faced Templar.

         Elodie nodded to them, a trick she’d learned from watching her mother and, oddly, the former Viscount. She’d thought it gave the nodding party a quiet dignity, and there was nothing better for such a silent place as this.

         The interview with Meredith – Elodie thought of her as that, as Meredith, a person, instead of as the Knight-Commander – was brief and confusing, almost as much as the Tranquil mage who sat placidly in the corner of the courtyard they were left in.

         Trying desperately not to imagine Bethany in the young woman’s place, saying that she was especially well organized, Elodie took note of the details that were offered. She was surprised when Aveline spoke up in defense of the apostates. Well, perhaps not defense, but she did give them the benefit of the doubt regarding whether or not they were blood mages.

         At the mention of it, Elodie checked on her other companions.

         Isabela was bored and it showed. She shifted as though she had an itch, and kept angling her breasts in the direction of Sebastian. A quick glance over Elodie’s other shoulder revealed that Sebastian was regaining his composure from the conversation on the way in rather than paying too much attention – either to Isabela’s breasts or the Tranquil mage’s words.

         Maker, it was hard to look at the woman.

         Aveline helpfully cleared her throat, and Elodie focused on the task at hand. She was good at that. Or at least she thought she was until the Tranquil – Elodie hated that she could not remember her name – explained the situation of the Ferelden mage.

         Children were always hard, and that she had tried to help them-

         A gentle cough from Aveline brought Elodie around, and she stumbled through the last of the questions she could think of to ask about the apostates. And then, thankfully, the interview was over.

         “I’m bored of this,” Isabela complained as they made their way out of the Templar Hall. “Let’s do something fun. Oh, like-”

          “Shut _up_ , whore,” Aveline said.

         “I was only _suggesting_ ,” Isabela replied.

         “I think I’ve heard enough of those for one day.”

         Elodie couldn’t get the empty look of the Tranquil’s face out of her head. She tried hard to forget it, but she kept right on seeing it, even when she blinked. And then it wasn’t the Tranquil – Elsa! Her name was Elsa! – it wasn’t Elsa’s face, it was Bethany. It was Bethany with no more of the golden tan of her skin, with none of the flush to her cheeks. It was Bethany with a brand on her forehead and those stiff, incense-laden robes and-

         “The Knight-Commander appreciates your support, Champion,” one of the Templar said.

         Only the hand Aveline put on her elbow kept Elodie from reaching for her sword at being so startled.

         Elodie nodded to the Templar and took quick steps for the stairs that would get them back out into the Gallows courtyard. Anything, so long as she could get out of the eerie quiet inside here. Aveline kept pace easily, a stiff-backed escort as Elodie made her way out the gate.

         “ _Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written,_ ” Sebastian said to the Templar, voice echoing in the open air of the courtyard.

         There was the noise of a slap against metal, and Isabela scowled at him. “ _Now_ I remember why I don’t try harder to sleep with you,” she spat and headed after the others.

         “I beg your pardon,” Sebastian frowned as they made their way down the steps.

         Once they were clear of the Templar guards, Isabela got close enough to keep her voice down as she snapped, “Did it even occur to you that maybe Hawke isn’t quite as in love with the Templar as you are, what with being the eldest daughter of an apostate?”

         Bright, topaz eyes blinked at Isabela. “What?”

         “You mean you’ve been traipsing around from Darktown to Sundermount behind her and you didn’t know?”

         “I…”

         “Consider it food for thought.”

         “Her lineage doesn’t change her deeds,” Sebastian said defensively.

         “For once, you’re right. But it certainly could change _someone’s_ opinion of her.”

 

 

*

 

 

         Admittedly, waiting for Hawke inside her mansion was not the boldest thing that Fenris had done in regards to her. There was the time – a time she knew nothing of – when they were not together that he had cornered Seneschal Bran and explained to him the difference between the ladies of the Rose he had just partaken of and the Lady Hawke he belittled and lusted after. Fenris told himself, still, that Hawke could care for her own virtue, but that particular man had been too far beneath her notice to be a perceived threat. He knew that his secret had little to do with that, truly.

         He and Isabela were done with each other… not quickly, but it certainly was not a lasting affair. It was not meaningless, either, but it had meant less than what he had with Hawke. Or what he wanted with Hawke. What he and Isabela had done together had at last given them a common ground on which to stand. It had done away with the awkwardness that plagued their exchanges. After it was done, things were different. She still flirted with him, but he no longer lashed out when she did. He still bristled when she thrust parts of herself at or onto him, but she was no longer curious and did it far less. It was Isabela that had pointed out the Seneschal’s infatuation. She said it amused Bran to speculate about the noises that the Champion might make, or how she might take to being strapped down and-

         Fenris had not realized he was glowing until Isabela cut herself off.

         He caught up with the seneschal that very night.

         From other descriptions Isabela had made, Fenris knew the sort of pleasure that the red-headed official indulged in. It riled Fenris to think of anyone _using_  his Hawke – and he had to admit that she was _his_ Hawke, if only in his mind – in such a fashion. It was far too much like…

         Too much like…

         … how he had been used.

         The rage that boiled up in him to think those thoughts demanded action. He knew himself – or thought himself – unfit for Hawke, so he relieved his anger through words ground into the Seneschal and the bloody end of one of the gangs on the docks.

         That was the boldest thing he had done in regards to his Elodie, and they had not even been together at the time.

         So waiting in his lover’s home was not out of the question. Bodhan expected her home, so Fenris removed his armor and went to wait for her in the library. As he did so, his thoughts strayed to what manner of repayment he might offer her for that morning. The pleasure of her mouth had calmed his agitation, and the work with Varric had gone smoother than anticipated. He had not even minded that Merrill was accompanying them, or Varric’s insistence that two elves and a dwarf were much less memorable than anyone in the Champion’s presence.

         When his thoughts began to grow too heated, he found a book that they had read a portion of and settled down on the settee and opened it, hoping he would be able to pick out where they had left off. Orana brought him a bottle of wine at one point, saying the mistress was fond of it while reading, and he thanked her.

         Still, Hawke did not arrive.

         Sometime after the final bells of the night, Bodhan came in to inform Fenris that they were not accustomed to waiting up for Messere Hawke, and if he needed anything to ring for one of them.

         By then, Fenris was too agitated by the lack of Hawke to be disturbed at being treated as a member of the household.

         Hours passed slowly, and Fenris left book and fire behind to make his way into the central hall of the mansion, as though his presence there might cause Hawke to appear.

         It did not.

         He stood for a long while, staring at the entrance, his only companion her mabari, who lay by the hearth and stared just as longingly at the front door.

         This was madness.

         Annoyed, Fenris returned to the library and dragged one of the chairs out. Hawke kept her in- and out-going correspondence at a little desk in the main hall, just to make it easy on Bodhan, but she wrote it elsewhere. Fenris dragged the chair to the desk with her letters and sat on it. He folded his arms, pointedly _did not brood_ , and waited.

         More time passed.

         It had been a long day, one started poorly despite her mending it, and there had been cause for him to use his markings in the work with Varric. He always found it easier to clear shades when they were lit, and there had been plenty of shades and blood in the cave that Varric had contracted with him to go to.

         The fire slowly burnt itself out. Sounds died away with the fire, and Fenris found himself alone in the twilight of the estate. It was an eerie experience. The last time he had been here without some sort of light was when they had cleared it of slavers, when Bethany was eager to make some sense of their family history, and Hawke was just glad to see her sister smile.

         It was just up on the landing where she’d camped out after the Deep Roads, angrily cleaning up the remains of the slavers that tried to take it back after she emptied it the first time.

         The sun rose, and Hawke did not return home.

         The day began without her.

         Sandal came out of his room and trotted up, happily, to swing on the chandelier, but the lady of the house could not chuckle with him about it.

         Orana practiced her lute, but there was no appreciative ear to praise her.

         Bodhan cleaned away broken items from Sandal’s swinging.

         The mabari was fed.

         Orana left to do shopping.

         And all of this without sign of Hawke.

         Fenris tried to be reasonable. She had been out all night before. He had been with her when she had. She probably had done so without him entirely. They were not always in one another’s sight.

         Still, something felt wrong.

         Hawke did not miss meeting him, and that morning she had seemed to believe she would be back for dinner.

         Bodhan was lingering near the door, worrying over his beard as he watched Fenris. Fenris rose and put his armor back on. He was not then, nor had he ever been, good at waiting for the outcome of things. Hawke was cause for concern in most things. Her absence was more troubling to him than he was willing to admit.

         Action suited him better.

         “Will you be back, messere?” Bodhan asked him.

         Fenris managed a nod as he fixed his sword on his back and headed out. There was a noise and then his night’s companion rushed after him, catching up as he made it to the door.

         “Try to keep up,” he said to the hound.

         He got a snort for his trouble.

 

*

 

         Anders was elbow-deep in healing a broken leg when Baskerville’s sizeable bulk plopped down in view just off to the side of the cot. He was concentrating too much to smile, but he was pleased to have Hawke come to visit. She would be a welcome relief from the broken bones of the children or the less savory concerns of the teenagers. “Just a minute, Hawke, I’ll be with you.”

         There was no response, which was odd.

         He finished up, warning the boy’s mother to keep him resting until he could move his toes properly, and then looked up.

         To say that Anders hated Fenris would be far too easy of a description. The elf was stubborn, surly, and several other things that grated on Anders’ thin nerves in all the worst ways. The least of any of that was that he was sleeping with Hawke. Anders refused to allow it to be more than that, though for years Justice whispered to him that it was wrong to lie to himself. That whispering had stopped over time, and now there was just a sigh and a chuckle when the familiar jealousy gripped Anders by the heart.

         “Elf.”

         “Mage.”

         Anders turned away for his potion making bench, ignoring the near-civil address. “I haven’t the time for-”

         “Has Hawke come here?”

         Stopping, Anders turned to lift a brow. “If she’s finally left you-”

         “She was expected home last night and did not arrive.”

         “Then, like as not, she’s plodding back from the Wounded Coast with Varric, or Sundermount with Merrill.”

         “You have not answered. Has she come here? Since yesterday?”

         Now Anders frowned. “I told you-”

         “I was with Varric and the witch yesterday,” Fenris said, his features hard. “I thought Hawke might have been with you.”

         “If she’s left you-”

         A soft growl interrupted him.

         Anders looked down at the mabari. Baskerville was not always at his master’s side. When she was out and he was not, he guarded the house or helped Aveline with the guards. In many ways, Hawke’s mabari had more of a social life than Anders did, but Anders had never seen him accompany Fenris anywhere.

         “She has not been here, then,” Fenris concluded. The hard expression turned from almost-a-frown into a full scowl. The elf turned away, looking at the ground. “Aveline, Sebastian, and Isabela,” he muttered to himself.

         “What?” Anders asked.

         “She was with them, then,” Fenris said, more to himself than to Anders. His hands clenched and unclenched, and his jaw muscles worked.

         “If it’s Isabela-”

         This time it was Justice who hushed him. **_Do not jest about this. He is obviously concerned over Hawke’s well-being._**

         Anders frowned at that. Now was not the time for Justice to take Fenris’ side, even if the elf had been all over Kirkwall to look for Hawke already. “Have you asked Corff?”

         “They left the Hanged Man well before noon. He could not say where they went.”

         “So start-”

         Fenris obviously made some decision, because he stalked off towards the door. Baskerville rose and followed.

         “Good riddance,” Anders muttered, wiping his hands on a cloth.

**_He is not the sort to worry idly._**

         _How in the Void do you know?_

**_Because you are agitated_ ** **,** **_and you think so._ **

         Shit.

         That was one of the big problems with sharing your head with someone. They knew what you thought.

         In the case of Justice, he knew whether or not Anders was telling the truth. He was rarely wrong, if only because Anders had generally good instincts and a rather broad base of experience to pull from.

         Anders groaned, waved to the women who were assisting him, and went for his staff. “Close up for me,” he said, turning to jog after Fenris.

 

*

 

         Afternoon had given way to evening, and the Hanged Man was busy when Fenris pushed in through the door. Isabela was still absent from her usual spot at the bar, but Varric had obviously slept off whatever had troubled him, as he was ensconced in a crowd of people spinning some sort of tale.

         “-through the eye,” Varric was saying. “At twenty paces.”

         No doubt some tale about Hawke.

         His stomach clenched.

         He had not been back to the mansion since morning, but no one had seen Hawke or her companions. He needed to know more… needed to find her. “ _Dwarf_ ,” he bellowed over the din.

         “He has a name,” Anders muttered.

         Fenris didn’t bother to offer a response to that. At some point, Anders had caught up with him. The mage said nothing, but followed along in much the same manner as Baskerville. Varric perked up at the shout, and Fenris pushed his way through the crowd over to him.

         “If you’ll all just excuse me, I am in high demand tonight.”

         The otherwise eager listeners dispersed, and Varric took a long swig from his mug as Fenris reached him. There was a decidedly unamused slant to his brows, but Fenris cared little for what humor the dwarf might or might not be in.

         When Anders came to a stop beside him, the look disappeared from Varric’s face, and he set down his mug. “Tell me.”


	11. Chapter 11

         Varric laughed off his immediate reaction, getting a chuckle from those of his audience that lingered despite being dismissed. The dwarf motioned the pair of them up to his suite, and asked Norah if she might be so kind as to send for the urchin that he kept in reasonably good stead to run his errands.

         Fenris was so agitated by then that he barely heard any of that. He had fallen back on reacting to his instincts about people’s behavior hours ago, and while he did not trust the easy expression on Varric’s face, there was motion and that was the appropriate reaction.

         The change in Varric’s expression as the door closed behind them reassured Fenris. He might have somewhat mixed feelings about the dwarf – for a whole host of reasons and not the most obvious one – but Varric was generally a decent man. He also always seemed to have an interest in Hawke’s well-being. If anyone could help to find her, it was Varric.

         The abomination looked annoyed as he was told to close the door, but he did as he was bid. And then it was up to Fenris to explain while Varric stoked the fire a bit and settled into his usual chair at the end of the squat table he kept on the business end of his suite. Almost as soon as Fenris finished relating what he knew – the pitifully little that it was: she had not come home and she was expected – Varric steepled his fingers and pressed them to the bridge of his nose. “And you’re sure she’s not just… on a tear?”

         “I already tried asking that.”

         Even agitated by the situation, even with that feeling exacerbated by the abomination’s continued insistence that Hawke be somehow unwillingly kept by him, Fenris saw the look in Varric’s eyes. He knew, just as well as Fenris, what Hawke might do if she were in the wrong mind. Somehow the abomination seemed to miss that part of her, failed to see the way her mood could darken and her choices stray further into a gray area beyond what the others would call “just”.

         Closing his eyes, Fenris forced the anger inside of him down. It would do no good to rage now, not when there was nothing to kill. He must remain calm enough to find her. It was no different – and he hated to think of it this way – than a dangerous situation in Tevinter. There would come a time for loosing his anger.

         This was not it.

         So he gritted his teeth and said, “If Hawke had a wish to do so, she would be free to.”

         When he closed his eyes, Fenris could still see the embarrassed flush to her cheeks as she ducked into the wardrobe. Little details from that morning seemed to glare at him. Had he pressed her, would she have stayed in bed and put off her business?

         “But?” Varric asked, interrupting his thoughts. “If you’re going to get all dreamy eyed, I may as well ask Baskerville. He’s a better informant.”

         “She indicated she would return before dinner.”

         Varric tilted his head, thinking, and went silent. The abomination glanced between the two of them and then sighed, retreating for the dwarf’s bed. “Wake me when someone actually figures something out,” he grumbled.

         “I did not ask you to accompany me,” Fenris retorted.

         “If Hawke’s in trouble, and she’s _almost always_ in trouble,” Anders said, “she’s going to need me.”

         Fenris started to snap something derogatory at the abomination, but Hawke’s mabari chose that moment to plop down on his foot. It was enough of a distraction that Fenris failed to voice his thoughts. Instead he wondered if the hound took after its master or if the master took after the hound in preventing his quarrels with the abomination.

         A tap to the door alerted them all to a new presence. Fenris tensed, but Varric raised both hands for calm. “I did send for someone, after all.”

         It turned out to be the urchin he’d sent for – Mathias, or something similar – and the child looked exactly as dirty as every other Lowtown scallywag. Varric put a hand on the boy’s shoulder while he spoke softly to him and then sent the lad back out the door.

         “Where is he going?”

         “To check my network,” Varric said, closing the door and returning to his chair. “I know everything there is to know about most of the city, if I get my runners right.”

         The abomination spoke up with, “Oh, that’s comforting,” at the same time Fenris said, “Somehow I fail to find comfort in this.”

         Varric scoffed at the two of them, “You’re just worried which of your secrets I already know,” he said, “but don’t worry, I use my knowledge only for good.”

         “There,” Fenris replied, narrowing his eyes, “I am convinced. I am not, however, sure of what good it will do us.”

         “You said Hawke left the mansion this morning, and that Corff saw her with Isabela, and that a Chantry Sister and one of the guard place have her in both places before lunchtime. It sounds to me like she was assembling a team.”

         “That is-”

         “It’s nearly impossible for _the Champion_ to go anywhere unseen. Especially in that big, clanking suit of armor that she wears. Someone saw her, and everybody talks.”

         Yes, coming to Varric had been the right thing to do.

         “Now I need you to go and collect Daisy for me.”

         “I don’t see-”

         “I’m expecting her, Fenris,” Varric said simply. “If we lose Daisy to her acute sense of direction, you’re going to lose me while I go track her down. Given the circumstances, I’d say that’s time we need.”

         “Fair enough,” Fenris said, straightening. “If there is-”

         “You’ll be the first to know,” Varric assured him. “And take Blondie with you, I don’t want my bed smelling like whatever funk walked in on his coat.”

 

 

*

         It was a dingy, disgusting hole she was in, but at least it wasn’t cold. It was mostly dark, but there was some light coming from somewhere behind her. Aveline thought she’d been in battlefields that smelled better than this. And what was worse, the sticky, smelly floor was against her face. There was barely any light, but she didn’t need it. What with the stink, there was no point in imagining anything more creative than what she knew she was lying in.

         Leftover carnage.

         Turning over onto her side was a painful attempt, and when she moved she felt heavier than her armor. She managed it, but over-compensated and fell over backwards. Well, most of the way backwards.

         Only then did she feel the ropes around her wrists and looped around her waist. Only then did she feel the dark space spinning and feel her pulse thundering in her head.

         A man groaned in pain behind her, and Aveline was almost glad when slurred brogue let out a string of what sounded like unholy curses. She couldn't quite tell, though. His accent was so thick that he might have been reciting a bit of the Chant.  “Is that you, your highness?”

         “I’ve asked… you… to call me Sebastian,” the prince wheezed out.

         “Never thought I’d be glad to wake up next to you.”

         “I think there’s… an insult in there… somewhere.”

         “Are you alright?”

         “Hard to breathe with you and your… armor… flattening me.”

         “Archers,” Aveline muttered. She tried to swing herself back onto her side, but Sebastian let out a grunt. “Help me turn over again, then.”

         Some rocking and creaking between the two of them sent Aveline cheek-down onto the carnage littered floor, and she tried not to mind. At least she could breathe, her armor was strong enough that though her torso was tender, she wasn’t crushed beneath the bulk of the prince strapped to her back. “Better?”

         “Maker, _yes_ ,” Sebastian sighed.

         “Can you make anything out from up there?” she asked.

         There was silence for a moment, and then Aveline could feel Sebastian looking around. “Nothing you’d care to hear described,” he said.

         “Hawke? Isabela?”

         “I don’t see them… unless I’d not recognize them any longer.”

         “If we’re in one piece, I doubt they’re any different,” Aveline said, rolling her shoulders experimentally. The ropes didn’t give enough for her to move her arms, and they were pulled back so tight she could barely feel her fingers.

         “I pray you’re right,” Sebastian said.

         He was shifting. She could feel it against her back. Either he was more flexible, or the ropes on him weren’t as tight. “There’s a knife in my-”

         When the rope around her wrists went slack and her arms weren’t pulled back so much, Aveline let out a moan of relief. Then the rope around her waist was loosened, and the weight of him left her back as he sagged away from her.

         “Better?” Sebastian asked with a groan.

         Working her arms slowly back into a more natural position, Aveline sighed. She flexed her fingers. She could hear Sebastian sitting up from the noises his armor made.

         “Thank you,” Aveline said. She pushed up to a sitting position slowly. Though she was seated on what seemed to be solid ground, it felt like whatever she was sitting on was trying to pitch over onto its side. Likely that had to do with the aching feeling in her head. There was less light than she’d thought when laying down. Wherever they were, it was almost pitch black. She closed her eyes to try and get them adjusted to the darkness, and when she opened them, she found she could make out nothing more than vague shapes. This was dangerous, she decided. She didn’t know what time it was or what day it was… and when she put her gloved hand down to steady herself, the rock beneath her felt _warm._ “We’ve got to find them.”

         “True,” he agreed. Sebastian didn’t seem to be moving, though. She saw the shape that had to be him shift in the darkness, but he didn’t try to get up.

         Aveline glanced over at him, but all she could make out from the sounds of his armor and what little she could see was that he seemed to be rubbing his wrists. “What is it?”

         “Why do you think they left our armor?”

 

 

*

         Merrill was undisturbed by Hawke’s absence. Not, Fenris grudgingly admitted, because she was not fond of Hawke, but because she did not believe that Hawke was in any danger. “Her sword’s as big as yours, Fenris, and she’s _very_ good at swording.” 

         Fenris did not have patience to correct her. He had bottled his anger, and it was kept coiled around itself low in his stomach, but his hold on it was a tenuous thing. What annoyed him normally made him grind his teeth now. It was left to the abomination to make small talk.

         The abomination huffed, but seemed equally at a loss to make any comment.

         By the time they made it back to the Hanged Man, Fenris was stomping each step, jarring restraint into himself physically because Merrill seemed disinclined to let up on her inane chatter. It was a relief to return to someone who would have sense to say, but as they returned to the dwarf’s rooms, Varric was staring silently into the fireplace with a glass of something in one hand. Fenris stopped in his tracks, disliking that look. The abomination and the witch had no similar compulsion. Merrill offered a cheerful little greeting as she headed over to the table, and Varric nodded.

         “Something’s put you in a mood,” the abomination said as he followed Merrill in. “I’ve not seen you break out the brandy in years.”

         “Close the door,” Varric said.

         Fenris pulled it shut behind him. In an effort to somehow relax himself, he unslung his sword and took off his gauntlets. Being armed made him too urgent for action.

         “Hawke went to the Gallows.”

         “Oh really?” Merrill asked. “What’s wrong with that? She’s been there loads of times. She’s sort of friends with that one Templar-”

         “Hawke would never-” the abomination started, puffing up for an argument.

         “-whatshisname?”

         “Knight Captain Cullen,” Fenris said. His lips turned down in a scowl. He had been so caught up in the details about _Hawke_ that he had forgotten what else had happened that morning. Of course, Cullen had visited. There had to be some reason-

         “ _Cullen_?” the abomination sputtered. “You mean to say that you think Hawke is friends with the Knight-Captain?”

         “Old boyfriend?” Varric asked, one brow quirked the way it did when he was seizing on a detail to use as plot.

         “Of course not,” the abomination grunted.

         “I do not believe that any friendship with Cullen she may have has any bearing on Hawke’s well-being,” Fenris said.

         “And I suppose you think that all Templar come in shades of reasonable,” the abomination grumbled. “Or can you not know what-”

         The abomination continued on, but Fenris ignored it. Remembering that Cullen had visited had cleared his mind like a fog had been lifted. He started to piece the morning back together. The burning anger he’d felt at being disturbed at a time _like that_ by someone– another _man_ , his indignant, possessive inner-voice added – only to have the feeling sucked out of him, quenched in Hawke.

         Cullen had come, and he had said it was on important matters.

         That made this easy.

         Cullen would know more.

         “-is it even safe, _knowing_ one of them? I mean, with what Hawke _is_ , with all she represents, she-”

         Fenris did not snort too loudly. What Hawke was, at that moment, was missing. She represented nothing but cause for concern, and any other thoughts needed to be set aside until she was otherwise. Of course he could not expect such reason from an abomination. He retrieved his sword and slid it into his baldric before putting on his gauntlets.

         “Going somewhere, Fenris?” Merrill asked.

         “The Gallows.”

         “Isn’t it a bit late to head over? They lower the gates at dusk, no one can get in or out,” Merrill said.

         “I am aware,” Fenris said. He carefully tied Hawke’s favor around his wrist. After three years it was starting to wear thin. He’d need to replace it before too much longer if he intended to keep wearing it, and he had no intention of going without it. “There are other ways into the Gallows than the front gate.”

         “I suppose the hard part will be getting out,” Varric said, fingers tapping on the armrests of his chair, “No one ever tries to break _in_.”

         Fenris knew a little better about that than Merrill or Varric could. He glanced over at the abomination. The pale mage shifted, looking away from all of them towards the fire. Perhaps a lack of subtlety came from being possessed of a formerly righteous spirit, but the mage was _obviously_ avoiding something.

         Hawke was fond of the man, and being fond of him meant that she went to dangerous lengths to help him, no matter how insane it was. It meant that some nights Hawke (and often himself as her companion) was out skulking at the docks cleaning up rogue agents, or that packages were handed back and forth, or ingredients were acquired from the Wounded Coast. There was often a lot of walking around, looking decidedly inconspicuous – or as inconspicuous as someone like _the Champion_ could look – and oftentimes a lot of blood as well. Fenris could not be sure how much of her support of the abomination had to do with her belief in his absurd cause, and how much of it was to do with her affection for her friend, but he accepted it because it was a decision that Hawke had made.

         Fenris was also a decision Hawke had made, and second-guessing one would lead to second-guessing the other.

         Even if he were to do such a thing, now was not the time.

         Now was the time to recall some of the debt the abomination owed him for remaining silent when speaking to the Templars.

         The abomination knew a way into the Gallows that did not involve boats or the front gate. Tonight, they would use that way to pay a visit.

         “Anders,” Fenris said.

         “What?” the abomination asked, glancing over his shoulder at Fenris.

         “We should be going.”

         The glance turned to a glare, as though the abomination could not believe what was being suggested.

         “Should I go as well?” Merrill asked.

         The abomination turned his glare on her. “No.”

         Varric sighed at that, and gave a pointed look to the mabari, “I’m counting on you to keep them from killing each other.”

 

*


	12. Chapter 12

*

 

         Once upon a time there was a girl who hated her mother for selling her off to a nasty bastard that ended up the girl’s husband. Then there were several years in which the girl pretended to be stupid and worked fervently to keep from getting pregnant – something that worked all but like a charm except for that one time, and even that got sorted – until Something Big happened.

         That Something Big was a honey-skinned Crow assassin who had a tongue that was surely blessed by the Maker himself, and enough skill with his hands and his dick to make Andraste jealous.

         Once the assassin was finished with the nasty bastard, he had his way – several ways, in fact – with the girl. At the end of it she was much more seriously considering the up-side of all this feminine charm that she had, and sort of enjoyed being a woman.

         The honey-skinned elf had only one parting bit of advice.

         Love yourself, because you are always there with you.

         It was really too bad that he was wrong about that.

 

*

 

         Given an option, Anders would rather be pulling splinters from beneath his fingernails than skulking through the forgotten tunnels that lead to the Gallows sewers with _Fenris_ of all people, and only Hawke’s mabari to keep the two of them from killing each other. Even if Fenris was being exceptionally quiet – more withdrawn than Anders was accustomed to from the surly elf – _Aveline_ would be pref-

         But no, that wasn’t true, was it? Aveline was a good woman, but she believed in Kirkwall’s justice. She trusted that system. Hawke trusted her implicitly, but had never invited her to help them when they did this sort of a thing. Hawke had brought Fenris along, on occasion, however.

         Anders remembered the first time. He had protested immediately.

         Hawke’s response was a very flat look. She asked if they were helping blood mages. When Anders told her no, of course not, she shrugged at him and told him that Fenris would be staying. That was how Fenris had known this way existed, but for some reason Fenris had never told the Templar about it. By the Void, Fenris had not told the Templar about _him_ either.

         They were nearing the entrance into the drainage system when Fenris drew to a stop. Anders made it several feet beyond him, near where they would need to scale a small wall to make it up a level into the lower section of the drainage system before he noticed he was alone.

         “It’s a bit further,” Anders whispered at him.

         To be honest, Anders had begun to feel nervous the moment that Fenris had shown up in the clinic. In the back of his mind, Justice mirrored his anxiety, almost like an echo. Nothing short of mortal injury brought Fenris to his door without Hawke. Before Fenris had reunited with Hawke, there was more than one occasion on which Aveline had come down to fetch Anders for something that Fenris refused to admit he needed help for.

         “I am aware,” Fenris replied in a low voice.

         “So why have you stopped?”

         “I require your assistance.”

         “You bloody well _have it_ ,” Anders grumbled. He was worried and annoyed, and feeling uncharitable because of it. Usually when he had such a uselessly vapid comment about someone, Justice had an opinion on it, but tonight he seemed as silent as Fenris. “Or does me mucking it across the bay with you seem to be me not cooperating?” Anders shook his head. He started to reach for the now-familiar handholds that would help him lever himself up and along the path.

         “This is… something else.”

         “What _now?”_ Anders huffed, turning back to look at Fenris.

         **_Perhaps he would be more forthcoming if you asked instead of demanding._**

         Sometimes when Justice spoke up, he could hear his old friend’s voice, even in his head. Justice still sounded – to Anders at least – the same as he had when he was in Kristoff’s body. His voice was old, a little gravelly, and severe. It was more so when Justice was chiding him, like now. All color and sound and sensation left when the two of them had a disagreement.

         _Oh, shut up. He’s putting us out on a limb here, and even you know it. If we’re found-_

         **_He has asked our assistance for Hawke._**

         And there it was. Justice was single-minded about things. Whatever was important at the moment, whatever had been deemed important enough by the spirit within him was the most important thing in existence. Anders hated Justice for that, when he could find enough of his own will to think separate thoughts. Hawke never judged them too harshly. She was patient when he got silent, and she kept a ready joke for when he came back to the moment, usually about how put out she was that Justice was a more appealing conversation than she was.

         Anders didn’t know when Justice had come to approve of Hawke, not specifically. Years ago Justice had sternly warned Anders that there was no good to be found in associating too closely with a woman who cared only for her own apostates. At some point that opinion had changed, as Justice had since grown protective of Hawke. The spirit still protested Anders more than passing infatuation of her, but it had become more respectful than any serious attempt to tear Anders from her company. And somewhere along the way Justice’s regard had morphed Anders’ own. He thought anyone would be better than Fenris for Hawke, but he wasn’t entirely convinced he was that sort of an ‘anyone’.

         Anders still wanted Hawke, but it was truly they both who wanted her, and it was… different.

         **_He is waiting._**

         Sound came back first. The water beside him was loud as it splattered down the stone. Then it was smell. The tunnels had a musty smell that was somehow still free of the chokedamp of Darktown. Finally light came back, and what light there was coming from the cave worms over his head – they seemed to cluster near the raise in the ceiling, either helpfully or something to do with the humidity there, Anders was never sure – revealed that Fenris was hung back against the wall. ~~  
~~

         Fenris stood still in the darker section of the tunnel, standing with one foot in the flow of water.

         **_Ask him._**

         A pressure on his throat and Anders was fumbling out, somehow more patiently and in a somewhat deeper voice than his own, “What is it?”

         There was a brief pause, and then Fenris’ lyrium lit. The pulse of it sent a shiver through Anders, one that Justice echoed more loudly. To cover any stronger reaction, Anders sucked a breath in through his teeth. The spirit was much more enticed by lyrium than even Anders could ever have anticipated before joining with him, and the rush of Fenris’ power always seemed to distract Justice.

         “You must take this from me.”

         “I must… what?” Anders asked, confused by the request even as his hands came away from the wall and he stepped closer to Fenris.

         “I will pass by no Templar unnoticed as I am now,” Fenris said. His voice was low, almost a growl, and as his jaw was clenched.

         “So you want me to… to what, exactly?” Anders asked.

         “I need you to use the lyrium.”

         There was a distracting buzzing in the back of his head, something Anders had not felt in years. Not since that night in Amaranthine when Justice had demanded they leave. It had terrified him then, the scratching sensation at the back of his brain. That was years ago now, before he’d become accustomed to what it was like to lose time to Justice. Now it was more normal, but usually the transition was abrupt and not quite so…

         It was almost like Justice was excited.

         **_It insults me that you should think such a thing._**

         The words were forceful, almost like a punch of a thought.

         **_Hawke needs our assistance._**

         Yes, well, there was that.

         Elodie had-

         **_Hawke._**

         Hawke, then, had never hesitated to help him when he needed it. She lent a hand with the mages he was freeing, and she more often than not came down to the clinic to bring him food. Whenever she did that, she stayed to help with bandaging.

         Fenris was staring down near his feet, the blue glow from his lyrium still coating him. The hum of it was almost as distracting as Justice scratching at the back of his consciousness.

         No, on closer inspection, Fenris was _glaring_ at the ground.

         “Fenris-” Anders started, but cut himself off when he truly looked at Fenris. Not just his jaw was tensed. It seemed that every muscle in the elf’s entire body was taught.

         “I… would not ask you if it were not important,” Fenris said. His voice was low.

         “What will-”

         “If you draw the power from the lyrium, I will be less noticeable,” Fenris said in the same low voice. “It is the only way.”

         Those words hung in the air almost heavily. Justice’s scratching lessened as Anders turned the words over in his mind, almost as though the spirit could feel guilt over the past. Was this true, now? Hawke was missing-

         Anders recalled his own flippant words in Varric’s suite, _she was always in trouble_. He knew better than others just what that could mean with so much desperation and fear fueling the population. Yes, time was slipping away from them, and Fenris was correct, they could not afford it. If Hawke was in danger, and they both _knew_ she was, there was no more time to lose. An answer, a clue was vital.

         There was no other way.

         Had it been true back then?

         Anders felt the scratching feeling at the back of his mind was a little louder, and the pressure of Justice against his throat. He knew the subtle hint he was being given. Now was no time for such questions.

         “I’m not even sure how to do such a thing,” Anders admitted.

         Slowly, Fenris removed his left gauntlet. It was strange to Anders to see the hand that was beneath it. He watched as Fenris flexed his fingers and then closed them into a fist. With the heavy gauntlet absent, Anders could see the tight muscle all the way from wrist to bicep tensed. Fenris held his fist in Anders’ direction, palm down. Only then did Fenris look up, two blue-glazed green eyes meeting Anders’.

         Anders’ throat felt dry. It was an invitation that he’d never anticipated. He wasn’t sure he wanted this, despite it all.

         His hand lifted, hovering over Fenris’ fist, and Anders took a deep breath. _Maker,_ he thought, _help me._

         It might have been Justice who helped him lower his hand and curl his fingers around the strong fist, but it didn’t matter. At least someone had helped.

         And then nothing mattered at all, because his whole body felt lit with electricity. The lyrium in Fenris was hot, blindingly so, and Anders lost himself to it. Justice scratched right through that spot in his mind, and Anders knew it was only the spirit’s doing that his body was still upright. He didn’t care.

         Justice drew the power from the lyrium, really. Anders had no spell to fuel, no use for it, but Justice…

         He’d always claimed to hear a song from lyrium, but in all the years of sharing his head with Justice, Anders had never heard it once despite the potions he’d taken and the time they had spent skulking about near the Deep Roads.

         Anders heard it now, though.

         **_It is different, in him._**

         Either Justice was sharing or somehow the lyrium was amplifying the spirit’s thoughts. Anders had questions, but no way to ask them. Everything he could sense was brightness and pleasure, and soon even simple thoughts were washed away in the sheer _feeling_ of the lyrium flooding through him, and nothing made sense.

         Anders had to close his eyes against it all. He could hear sounds, possibly talking, but it seemed far away, and nothing could be so important as to break up this, could it?

         **_He will return._**

         Justice’s thoughts were the last thing Anders felt for a long while.

 

 

*

       There was something off about this evening. Cullen could not put his finger on it, but something was different about… it almost seemed that the very _air_ was different. The Knight-Captain did his usual check of the watch in the courtyard, and then headed up to be sure that the tower halls were guarded. It made him feel better about the state of things that the mages were all secured at night. Something about the way that they had interacted so… freely… at the Lake Calenhad tower… it must have contributed to the horrors that occurred there. Surely the debauchery had had something to do with it.

         Cullen was not stupid. He knew that such things happened here as well, he knew that he was unlikely to be able to stop them entirely, but he did his best to keep them to a minimum.

         That meant turning a bit of a blind eye to the recruits and, in some cases, fully-vested Templars who spent their leisure time at the Blooming Rose.

         He knew that Meredith would not approve of such allowances, but that was a new development. Once they had been very like-minded. Meredith was a standard that he strove towards, someone to look up to. She was resolute in her role, the role of the Templar, as guardians. She seemed to understand his thoughts, she seemed to share them.

         Or at least, she had been at one time. Everything seemed different now.

         Meredith’s expectations seemed higher, if possible, than before. She was harsher with the recruits, less forgiving to those within the Order, and she kept herself aloof from the populace as well as those under her command. Cullen saw her at least once a day, but sometimes it was only during his reports, and often she stared as though not listening to him as he gave them.

         And then she had such strange requests to ask of him, at times. Delivering the letter to the Champion was not the first of them, but it was the first time he was given any knowledge beyond his orders. That the Champion had handed him the letter was somewhat surprising, considering… how…

         An image of the Champion from that morning flashed across his mind. Her head was thrown back, her eyes were closed, lips parted. The white-haired elf curled over her with his head down, lips to her skin, tanned hands on her lighter golden skin.

         _Fenris_ , the Champion had said his name was, and Cullen knew that he’d been told it before, but wondered if he’d ever really heard it. The elf was… he was…

         Cullen was not a man taken to vice or excess. He rarely drank, he did not join the men’s indulgence at the Rose, and he used lyrium only when needed for battle or to stave off the worst symptoms of repeated consumption. The little blue vials did not call to him, and though he knew he would not stand against a powerful mage without them, in many ways he resented it.

         But the elf was different.

         The lyrium-branded elf’s mere presence could drive Cullen to distraction. There was something different about the lyrium _in_ the elf. It seemed almost as alive as the body that wore it. There was a pulse to it, there was breath and… emotion. Being near the elf most often felt – or had felt when he’d first encountered the former slave two steps to the right of the Champion years ago – like standing just to the side of lightning cast by an angry mage. It made the hair on Cullen’s arms lift up and his throat go dry.

         He’d never even thought to find a man attractive before. He _still_ didn’t find men attractive in that way.

         It was almost sad, because the elf had volunteered to assist even without the Champion’s involvement on more than one occasion when they were short-handed to track down apostates. In each encounter the elf seemed agreeable enough, and more than once had inquired after Cullen’s state of being. Cullen knew he was not alone in the elf’s good regard, other Templar – the recruits especially – had mentioned that his assistance was valuable.

         But Cullen could barely get a sentence out in the elf’s presence without a slight stutter that he hated himself for, and he always felt like a novice with his first taste of lyrium any time the elf was nearby.

         That was the real reason he had such a problem remembering the elf’s – Fenris’! – name. It was hard to pay attention with something so… so…

         Swallowing the lump in his throat, he forced himself not to think of it. His will was strong, an old trick he’d learned from another time in another tower, and he could deny himself this as easily as he regulated himself in other ways. He simply would not think on it.

         His evening report to Meredith was done, and the Knight Commander had retired. She had turned towards the garden that was locked at the heart of the Gallows, and said not a word to Cullen.

         Cullen could puzzle over that, but there was still paperwork to be done yet, so Cullen resigned himself to it and headed into his office.

         The door hadn’t even closed all the way when he _felt it_.

         “You would be wise not to raise alarm.”

         Not trusting his voice to answer, Cullen turned towards the sound of the voice, trying to reconcile the words with the dull throb of anger that he felt from the dark corner of his office where the elf – Fenris! – was leaned. How he had not noticed him was something confusing. How had someone limned in lyrium managed to enter a fortress filled with Templars and mages undetected?

         “I mean you no ill.”

         “You have a strange way of showing that,” Cullen said, crossing to his desk in a way that he hoped appeared casual. The Champion’s advice rang in the back of his mind, and he knew he ought to do as she’d suggested, but Cullen felt like his lips were glued together. He had not the words for such an apology, not tonight anyway. Instead he took a seat at his desk and removed his gauntlets as he did every night before starting his paperwork.

         “Under normal circumstances,” the elf said, pushing upright from the way he was leaning in the corner, “there would be nothing to demonstrate. I am no enemy to the Templar.”

         Cullen was not certain he agreed with that, but he refrained from commenting by swallowing against the dryness in his throat. The elf – Fenris! – Fenris rolled his shoulders, and the handle of his broadsword glinted in the moonlight that came in the window behind him. Cullen did his best not to stare. He’d always wondered how an elf managed to wield such a thing. “You certainly haven’t made your way here at night to discuss your friendship with the Order,” Cullen said.

         “Hawke is missing.”

         “The Champion?”

         A low, displeased noise growled its way out of the elf’s throat. Cullen frowned at that, in part because of the faint pulse of emotion that accompanied it. Cullen could almost feel it himself. What was that? Concern? Anger?

         It didn’t matter, Cullen told himself firmly. That was not important. What mattered was that Fenris had made a very ill-advised journey to question him about this.

         Cullen wasn’t sure why. Surely Meredith’s letter hadn’t been so-

         “I need you to tell me what brought you to her estate yesterday.”

         “It was a letter,” Cullen said.

         Fenris frowned. “You…” he trailed off, lips pressing together.

         The feeling coming from him throbbed again, and Cullen bit his lower lip, dropping his eyes to the paperwork on his desk and picking it up to shift through a pile. He wasn’t an addict, this wasn’t a problem. It wasn’t. It-

         Two spiked fists slammed into the top of Cullen’s desk. In the quiet of the evening, the noise of it was loud, and it was strong enough to make the desk shift, knocking into Cullen’s knees. Jumping slightly, Cullen looked up and was unsurprised to find himself staring almost directly into angry green eyes.

         This close he could almost taste the lyrium, and the feeling – whatever it was – was strong enough that Cullen felt his pulse speed up in response.

         “Who sent it?” Fenris asked slowly, hands flattening against the desktop. The claws of his gauntlets – how had Cullen missed that they had claws? Those things looked _wicked_ – scraped against the wood, somehow leaving an impression on the ironbark.

         “Pardon?” Cullen choked out.

         “Who wrote the letter?”

         Cullen had half a mind to brush this off, despite the hour, despite the urgency, despite how horrible he felt for his part in all of the interrupting the other morning. But then that throb that was keeping his heart a little too-quick and his throat a little dry _flared_ and there was a flash of blue.

         “Meredith.”

         The word tumbled from his lips easily, though Cullen didn’t know where the breath to speak had come from because his heart had _stopped_.

         “More.”

 

 

*

 

         “Tell me this was worth it.”

         “It is for _Hawke_ ,” Fenris said, lowering himself into the tunnel, careful not to make a splash as his feet slipped into the rancid smelling water. He did not say it to remind himself, but it was a comfort nonetheless. He was doing his best not to feel dirty. His whole boy felt odd. His muscles strained, and he knew himself reaching for power that was not within him in that instant. It was gone from him. Fenris did his best not to look at the ab-

         No. He would be fair. The mage had been of great assistance.

         Fenris stilled the faint tremble of his body, and looked at the mage.

         The mage was not as he had been left. The spirit had been in control then, all crackling skin and Fade-blue glowing eyes. Justice, Fenris recalled it was. Fenris cared little for the creature beyond the assistance that had been rendered. The mage was leaned against the wall. He looked as though he’d been a centerpiece at one of the Blooming Rose specialty nights, or some offering leftover from a Tevinter gala. His hair was escaping it’s tie, there was a sheen of sweat on his skin, and a ruddiness to the mage’s cheeks that was often lacking due to malnourishment and overwork. In another creature, the state of the mage might induce compassion.

         In Fenris it induced bile.

         It had been years since anyone had drawn the power of his lyrium but he himself. The sick, weakened sensation of it laced through his flesh just as surely as the lyrium itself. Fenris had vowed never again to let happen what he had _asked_ the mage to do to him, but there was nothing else to have been done. Fenris would not be deterred until morning on this errand. Draining his lyrium had been the only viable option to enter the Gallows without undue bloodshed.

         He had accomplished that, but it felt a hollow accomplishment. It was such a small victory that he could not even celebrate it. It was nothing when Hawke was the prize he sought. His heart clenched at the very thought of her, and he forced his thoughts away. It would do no good to lose focus now.

         Fenris needed to get the information back to Varric. It was one thing to accost the Knight-Captain in the middle of the night. He had no fear of the man, and it made him feel better to catch the man at a disadvantage. Turn about was more than fair play, and Hawke-

         Fenris tuned back the direction they had come from and started walking.

         Best not to think of her just now, he reminded himself.

         “What did Cullen say?”

         The Knight-Commander, however, was a different story. It was not that Fenris feared her. The anger he restrained to the tight coil within him knew no fear, only action, and Fenris would do anything to get Hawke back. But the longer he spent worrying, the more his old instincts kicked in. His anger was only energy, to be used when it was best suited. He was slowly becoming cold and without emotion, it made him more effective. He knew that he could not barge into Meredith’s office as he had Cullen’s, even in daylight. He could not even approach her. Not yet. The only thing that drew Meredith Stannard out was her duty, and Fenris had nothing to offer the woman’s duty. He had to hope, now, that knowing Hawke had been sent after apostates was enough to piece together the next step.

         If it were not _then_ he would reconsider confronting Meredith. Hawke would be found, no matter what it took.

         “Fenris,” the mage grunted, pushing off the wall and grabbing him by the arm.

         The touch felt odd, but Fenris knew that for what it was. Fenris could sense magic in the fingers that touched his skin. He turned his eyes back to the mage, and had to bite back a violent reaction to the disheveled appearance.

         He had asked for it, he reminded himself, even if the reminding did little good for his mood. This, he recalled, was how Danarius could look after a long night. The same flared nostrils, the same flushed cheeks after Fenris was called to his master’s whim. The same desire.

         “Do not touch me,” Fenris said, dislodging the hand on his arm with a swipe of his hand.

         The mage scowled at him. “Aren’t you a peach?”

         “We should move on.”


	13. Chapter 13

 

         Over the years, Anders had grown accustomed to Fenris. He’d come to expect the elf’s stubborn response to anything related to mage politics, his general distaste of mages in general, and the prudish way he behaved about his association with Hawke. Not that Anders held Hawke any less reverent in his mind, but he had the personal opinion that anyone fortunate enough to be involved as intimately with Hawke as Fenris was ought to be proud of it. Fenris had relaxed in other areas – he had taken to jokes that were not always cutting, he had begun smiling just often enough that Merrill and Isabela did not mark calendar days on it – but he was fastidious about Hawke’s reputation almost to the point of denial. It made Anders sick to think of it.

         Justice did not approve of Anders’ disapproval of Fenris, but then Anders had not approved of Justice’s disapproval of Anders’ association with the Warden Commander. The mage and his spirit were separate enough that they could still hate each other’s opinions about things like that, but with all the miles and years between the two of them and the Warden Commander, Anders found it hard to stay angry with Justice. Whatever point the anger might have served had long since been washed away by blood they had shed or ground down by the more pressing necessities of survival. Justice had no similar inclination to forgive Anders, even if it were in the spirit’s nature. Which it wasn’t, anyway.

         So most of the time Justice was a bit annoyed. It was good for their cause – agitation was a sort of energy, and a spirit with energy was well night unstoppable – but not so good for Anders.

         He couldn’t live trapped in his body with a spirit that was angry with him all the time without some bright moments. Even a very strong-willed soul could not suffer endlessly without some hope, some pleasure. In the absence of it, a mind – especially a mage’s mind – would conjure what was needed. So sometimes Anders let himself think of pleasant things.

         All he had were his memories, kept tucked away in a corner of his mind. His mother was a fond one, and the brief, true connection with Karl back in the Ferelden Tower. And then there was the Commander.

         But he was just a man, despite his magic, and even good memories faded.

         Justice was quite a boon in regards to that, at least when it came to _her_. The spirit’s own thoughts of the Commander of the Grey were fond, and as with all things that Justice liked, they were sacred. It was almost like having a shrine in his mind, a place that was too holy to enter. But the spirit’s memory was not muddled, and did not deteriorate. Justice had not known the warmth of the Commander’s skin or the soft press of her lips or the way her hair smelled with those ridiculous oils she used on it, but her face was easily called in acute detail, and the color of her hair, and the curves of her tattoos.

         With such vivid memories that Justice kept of how she looked, it was easy to recall the things that only Anders knew to go along with them.

         Memories of her were hardest just to look at. Justice warned him that he made himself vulnerable with them, and Anders agreed. Every time he thought of the Commander, it was harder and harder to let go of it. It was not safe to be so open, just as he had warned Hawke. He was not safe enough to be unguarded. So all these years he’d kept his thoughts of her mostly locked up, tucked away and hidden in Justice’s shrine from anyone’s view, even his own.

         But the lyrium coursing through him made him ache for her. He ached for an hour in the quiet, dark end of the clinic and for Justice to let him alone enough to remember the way she liked him to wake her with his head between her thighs and the strength of her thighs around his waist afterwards when she -

         **_These memories serve no purpose._**

         Of course they didn’t. Of course Justice would bring that up. What a sodding, cock-blocking bastard he could be. If only Justice could kill the whole urge instead of just the pleasant parts of it.

         Sloshing through the dank water behind Hawke’s mabari and Fenris-

         -what a _treat_ the elf could be, stuffing him full of lyrium like that and telling him to heel like any good dog would-

         -Anders felt darkness in himself. It was so much worse than when he’d lashed out at the Templar the night they’d discovered Karl or that terrible, terrible evening they’d gone after the mage girl Ella.

         Hawke had been all that stopped him – stopped _them_ from doing something horrible.

         And Hawke flirted with him.

         Anders sucked a breath in through his teeth as he thought of it. Hawke flirted with him like she knew what she was doing, or as though she flirted with everyone. She joked with everyone, but the way she said things sometimes, even within earshot of the blasted elf…

         She was within arms’ reach, and-

         **_Restrain yourself._**

         Anders scowled at Fenris’ back. There was something terrible about lyrium when it did this sort of thing to a person, mage or no mage. He could feel Justice in him, almost like the spirit was running through his veins. Which wasn’t comfortable at any point in time, let alone when he was tromping through dank passages with his _favorite_ person.

         It was sort of like an itch.

         Or like arousal.

         The spirit stuttered at that. Justice always balked at things that involved too much pleasure, especially when he was indicated as enjoying something pleasant. He ranted about the ‘path to the Void’ whenever Anders tried to get a straight answer from him, and that alone said quite a bit about the spirit’s corruption. Since when did Justice know how to dissemble?

         Any road, if that was the way reign Justice back in control, he would do it. All he need do now was latch on to thoughts that got him hot and bothered, ones that the spirit couldn’t snap him out of with just a phrase. Eventually Justice would get uncomfortable enough to stamp that out, and Anders would have his mind back.

         So. Arousal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         His feet were wet.

         That wasn’t the right path. He needed something else. Something pleasant. Some _one_ pleasant.

         Hawke was pleasant.

         **_Hawke is not yours._**

         Justice surged to the front of his mind, and Anders saw black at the edge of his vision. That wasn’t going to work, at all. He needed something else. Thinking about the Commander hadn’t-

         He hadn’t called her Commander since the night she’d taken him back. Maybe that was the problem. Justice thought of her as the Commander, it was part of his impregnable shrine of her memory.

         Oh. Well… maybe…

         Anders let himself think of _her._

         Leonie.

         His heart snagged at the barest thought of her name.

         The warm feeling in his chest surged, and Justice shrank back. The tingle from the lyrium wouldn’t let the spirit withdraw, but he let go of the grip he had on Anders enough so that Anders wasn’t worried about being turned in for glowing in public.

         Thinking about Leonie stoked the heady rush of arousal he felt, and that helped pass the time and distance through the murky water back to Darktown _far_ more pleasantly. Dawn was just breaking as they emerged from the tunnels, and it occurred to Anders that Fenris had said no words since the angry order nearly two hours earlier.

         Hawke’s mabari rose from the place it had settled itself when they descended, and moved closer to sniff Fenris.

         “Hanged Man, then?” Anders asked as he climbed the rest of the way out of the hole. “Varric will know what to do.”

 

*

 

         The first thing the two of them did was to rest. There was too much of whatever had knocked them unconscious still in their systems to do much more. Whatever it had been that put them out, Sebastian reasoned as they worked a space clear enough to rest in, it was strong. Aveline grunted in agreement, but the warrior was out before Sebastian could even finish a second sentence.

         He was tired, too, but it would be better if one of them were awake in case whatever had made the pile of rotting carcasses returned to feed on them too. Sebastian idly wondered – because the only thing to do in the dim light was think, even with Aveline’s noisy breathing beside him – how this had all happened.

         Hawke.

         Well, of course she was how all of this had happened. Things tended to _happen_ around Hawke, both for good or ill. Mostly for ill. There were a lot of bodies in Hawke’s shadow, even if Sebastian weren’t being unkind about it. She’d caused a lot of death, and been present at a lot of it to boot.

         A frown twisted his lips in the near-darkness. A lot of bodies, and not all of them her fault. Sebastian had been absent from some of her dearest losses. They were the sorts of things he found out from Fenris over cards and wine on quiet nights when Sebastian found himself at the rotting mansion seeking some quiet company. Fenris had a rather magnificent horde of wine in his appropriated basement, and despite his sometimes gruff exterior, the elf was more than willing to share with those that he valued.

         It was unnerving, almost, how much he trusted Hawke when he knew so little about her. Thanks to those slow, dark nights with Fenris, Sebastian knew the sorts of things that Hawke did not talk about because of pain and the knowledge being common among her boon companions. Hawke was one of three children, both her parents were dead. Sebastian did not grudge Fenris leaving out that her father was an apostate, it was not the sort of thing that Fenris would share about her. It was not the sort of thing that Fenris would find important.

         What he had found important enough to share had strengthened the kinship that Sebastian had felt with the heavily armored woman the moment he saw her. She’d pulled her helmet off, slicked her hair back and announced that the mercenaries were dead. There was no request for anything, not even the compensation he’d offered on his Chanter’s Board request, just her statement, and a brief softening of her eyes.

         He had not known, then, why, but he did now. Hawke had lost people of her own. Sebastian was not sure if he would have felt kinship in his loss then. At times he did not now, though he knew that many of those around him had also faced some sort of loss. His chest still ached to think that he might have made some difference, had he but been at home in Starkhaven to see the signs. There must have been signs, and there was no need for the slaughter that he had missed.

         Sebastian closed his eyes, blocking even the wane light of the cave. His thoughts bled dark, and the pain he felt threatened to bring tears to his eyes.

         Nearly a year ago, when he had come across Hawke again, the change in her had struck him. There was something quieter about her eyes, though her smile was still easy and her wit was still just as free. He hadn’t felt comfortable pressing for too much information at the time. He knew he had met her years before, but with the rage clouding his thoughts he could barely remember the meeting, and this new introduction felt so much more real. It was impolite to ask what had changed and expect any serious answer, but he had asked her how she was.

         All she had said was, ‘We cannot regain the dead.’

         “Draw your last breath, my friends; Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky; Rest at the Maker’s right hand; And be forgiven,” Sebastian murmured. He could do nothing for what had happened, he could only continue to live in a manner that he best thought would prevent such a thing happening again.

         How had this happened?

         His mind was clouded with whatever combination of poisons they had suffered to be put down as they were, and the memories were dim.

         The four of them in the skiff had crossed the bay, but Hawke had turned them down the steps into Darktown. Not towards the clinic, he recalled, but there were children that she wanted to speak to. And then the sewers…

         That poor girl had turned into an abomination.

         Sebastian leaned into the rock behind him. Sometimes, he thought, the Maker was cruel. That girl-

         That woman, he corrected himself, that _mage_ had good intentions, and when thwarted she had resorted to blood magic. She had been trying to kill them. Hawke often discarded her helmet when they went below ground, claiming that it was harder to see in the darkness with her vision impaired. The look on Hawke’s face had been one he couldn’t quite read at the time. It had either been pity or disappointment.

         Whatever she’d felt had not impeded her quick, efficient destruction of the abomination.

         Her merciless reaction to the corrupt was one of the things he admired about her.

         Beside him, Aveline snorted in her sleep. The noise startled Sebastian enough that he knew he had been falling asleep a little bit. How much of his thoughts were really whispers in the Fade?

         “Well, this won’t do,” Sebastian said softly to the darkness.

         Years ago he’d learned the Chant by heart. It wasn’t for any pious reason, but rather because it was fantastically effective at distracting him from things – either those he wanted to do or those he didn’t.

         Sleep, in this instance, was a thing to be distracted from.

         Rather than start anywhere that might induce some sort of paranoia – despite his thoughts running in circles, Sebastian’s mind was narrowing down all the places they could and could not be, and warm stone meant somewhere underground, and that _could_ mean the Deep Roads – he settled on Transfigurations.

         “These truths the Maker has revealed to me,” Sebastian whispered into the darkness. “As there is but one Word…”

 

 

*

         Varric did not, however, know what to do. His best solution was for the two of them – four if one counted the mabari and Merrill – to return home and wait for some news to turn up. Varric would send for them as soon as anything of substance was to be had.

         Fenris didn’t argue, only because he had every intention of continuing the search on his own. Something would turn up, and he would not rest until it did. He left the others and returned to Hightown to consider things. He needed information about the runaways that Hawke had been sent after, and if Cullen was correct and Hawke had queried the Tranquil, he could not speak with the woman until morning. Wandering around the dawn hours without a goal would do little good and only end in bloodshed, but there might be some indication in the letter that Hawke had received that would give him a hint. Fenris focused on that elusive hope as he started on the steps.

         Making the turn from the Hightown market towards Hawke’s estate, he gave Baskerville a thoughtful look, “You could await your mistress at the mansion.”

         A low growl was his answer from the hound.

         Fenris nodded, and took a deep breath, pausing as the overhang before her doorway approached ahead of him. Not for the first time, he felt comforted by the animal’s bulk as it accompanied him. Hawke had always treated the animal as though it were intelligent, and everything that it had done that evening had indicated she was correct, and the stories he had heard of the mabari were true.

         Either way, he had no truer help in his search than the dog.

         And he could at least admit that he would do no better being told to sit and wait for Hawke’s return than the mabari seemed likely to.

         “There is… much to consider,” he said, speaking directly to Baskerville, “I do not know whether to-”

         “FENRIS!”

         For a brief moment, before he managed to turn towards the source of the shout, Fenris thought Hawke was on the far side of the courtyard. As he turned, though, he was greeted with a different armored figure jogging towards him.

         It was Donnic.

         Shifting uncomfortably, Fenris waited for Donnic to reach him. The sight of the man reminded Fenris that Hawke had not gone missing alone, no matter how worried he was over her.

         He reminded himself that Donnic was a friend. More than that, Aveline was a friend, and Donnic was her husband. The man was likely as surprised and bewildered as Fenris himself. As Donnic got close enough to see his face, Fenris’ suspicions were proved truthful. Donnic was somewhat out of breath, and he looked unsettled. Fenris managed to relax some. If Donnic wanted to speak, Fenris would oblige the man, but he would not do it out in the open.

         “I wanted to ask you-”

         “Not here,” Fenris interrupted. With what he’d learned from the Knight-Captain, Fenris did not trust the city itself. The stones beneath his feet may be treacherous. Hawke was _the Champion_. More than that, she fought like a force of nature. Nothing should have waylaid Hawke, especially in the company of her companions. Something had gone very, very wrong.

         Fenris felt his muscles tense with the very thought of it.

         “What do-”

         “I was returning Hawke’s mabari,” Fenris said. The hound let out a wuff in annoyance, curling a lip to show off his fangs to the two men. Fenris glanced around the street they stood in. “Accompany me.”

         Donnic’s gaze followed Fenris’ warily, and the man nodded.

 

 

*

 

         Her whole body felt heavy and sore. Elodie thought she opened her eyes, but nothing seemed to happen. There were voices that she could make out though, and so she listened and tried to stay awake.

         “Gone a bit off the deep end, hadn’t ’e?” a gruff voce asked.

         “Do they pay you to think?” a second voice groused.

         A grunt answered that from the first voice.

         “’Twere a ballsy thing, true, but s’long’s we git payed, I culd car less if he’s a blighted abomination,” a second responded. “Tighten that better. S’th’soddin’ _Champion_ , afterall.”

         Distantly, as though it was happening to a body not her own, Elodie could feel heaviness and tightness. Was that some sort of strap or a shackle? She couldn’t tell.

         And she was so… so tired.

         Maybe if she got a little sleep she’d be able to feel herself again.

         …yes…

 

 

 

 

         … that was a…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         …great…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         …idea.


	14. Chapter 14

         Returning from his long patrol, one Donnic had chosen himself as he’d a lead on some smugglers that were running out of the caves on the Wounded Coast, Donnic was unsurprised to find that Aveline was absent. He thought nothing of it, especially when he was informed she’d gone out with Hawke. They could be gone for long stretches of time, and nothing ever came of it but dead ne’er-do-wells, some looted coin, and a series of explanations from Aveline about it being the Champion’s civic duty to keep the streets clean.

         But then a day passed, and there was no sign of Aveline. Both she and Hawke were mindful of Aveline’s hand in the guard, and so they made sure that she wasn’t often away for long stretches of time.

         Something was off.

         Before he let himself worry about it, Donnic headed to Darktown. More than once she’d been at the healer’s clinic there, watching over a recovering Hawke or being mended herself, so it was a safe bet. But when he arrived the clinic was empty, closed up, and there were no patients or assistants to ask for information from.

         His next stop had been Hawke’s mansion, and it was there that he had encountered Fenris. At last, he thought he had hope of some answers.

         But.

         But this was nothing like what he expected. Fenris seemed tense, and was being more secretive than normal. That couldn’t be good, though it could have nothing to do with Aveline. Or it could have _everything_ to do with her. Donnic forced the worst of his panic down. Aveline was a strong woman, the strongest he’d ever met, and nothing short of-

         He wouldn’t think that. He had to focus, this was no different than anything else about being a guard. He could be an anxious husband later, now he had to _be of use_ in helping to find his wife.

         Having spent years befriending the prickly elf – a feat that Donnic had found much easier than everyone else had intoned to him it would be – Donnic could see the agitation in him. Fenris’ shoulders were drawn together, back hunched into a strained posture that Donnic was unaccustomed to. Fenris looked as though he had not slept, and he smelled atrocious.

         Any anxious demands that Donnic had of the elf died when faced with so many very obvious tells about his mood. Fenris was rarely so obvious with his emotional state, and knowing that and seeing the distress in the elf made it harder for Donnic to get control of himself.

         _Be of use_ , Donnic reminded himself, and clamped down savagely on the urge to panic. He followed quietly into the Hawke estate, suddenly as wary as Fenris was of the openness of the streets, and started to ask a question when Fenris shrugged his sword from its bauldric.

         “Is there news?” the dwarf standing by the inner door asked. He seemed anxious, and looked strangely pale, as though he had not slept.

         “Nothing yet,” Fenris answered quietly.

         “What?” Donnic asked as Hawke’s mabari brushed past him into the hall. Even after training with Baskerville, the ‘brush’ was enough to push him off his path.

         Ahead of him, the white haired elf gave no answer, crossing to the desk opposite the door to rummage through the papers there. Baskerville sniffed the air once before heading over to flop down in front of the fire. The hound folded its paws and tucked its snout into them, staring at the fire as though deep in thought on his own.

         “Guardsman Hendyr,” the dwarf – Donnic couldn’t remember his name – said, obviously surprised to see him, “I had not realized you were helping to look for Lady Hawke as well.”

         “What?” Donnic repeated, stepping into the room and turning to look at Fenris, or, more accurately, at Fenris’ back, as the elf was bent over the desk against the far wall.

         “She didn’t come home the other night as we expected her-”

         Fenris swiped his hand angrily across the desk, scattering papers to the floor, as though being reminded of what the dwarf was implying was enough to make him want to break something.

         “Messere Fenris,” the dwarf said, sounding awkward.

         Fenris straightened as quickly as though he had been lashed and turned on his heel. Donnic hoped that Fenris had something to add, but rather than speak, Fenris turned and headed through a side door. The mabari perked its ears, but remained flopped on the tile by the fireplace in the main hall. Ignoring the dwarf whose name he couldn’t remember, Donnic followed Fenris.

         The room turned out to be the library. If Donnic were less agitated, he would have remembered that. He’d been in it before. As with most of the mansions in Kirkwall that he’d been in, this room also boasted a fireplace. Fenris paced in front of the massive mantle with the same agitated hunch to his shoulders as he had outside. Donnic thought that his friend looked almost… hunted, and the thought unsettled him. This did not bode well. He’d come to ask about Aveline, and all this to do with Hawke being missing as well was a bit of a shock.

         “I do not know what to tell you.” Fenris’ voice was low.

         “What-”

         “You have come to ask about Aveline.”

         “How did you-”

         “Aveline was with Hawke, and you were not at the barracks when I stopped in to speak to the Captain of the Watch. They said you were out on patrol.”

         Donnic sighed. Of course methodical, hack-it-until-it-dies-and-twice-more-to-be-sure Fenris had stopped to check. “Have you found anything?”

         “Only that they were on some errand for the Knight Commander,” Fenris said. His fists were clenched at his sides, the muscles in his arms tense. His pacing slowed, losing the agitated edge to it. Thinking seemed to calm Fenris, at least a little. “Hawke went to the Gallows with Isabela, Aveline, and Sebastian sometime after midday.”

         “But Isabela is at the Blooming Rose,” Donnic said, confused at how Fenris could have missed that.

         Whatever response Donnic was expecting, it certainly wasn’t Fenris making a quick turn and stomping back out into the main hall. The elf was so quick that Donnic was left hurrying to follow. The activity roused Baskerville, and the mabari shouldered past him as he trailed Fenris back out the front door. The steward called after them something that Donnic couldn’t catch with the noise of sword and door and then the chirping of birds outside Hawke’s estate.

         Hearing about Isabela’s whereabouts was all chance. He’d asked after Aveline and Hawke, and someone had laughed and said the only sign of them was the pirate in the whorehouse. Donnic was glad he’d filed the information away instead of forgetting it.

         It was good to be moving, doing something, even if it took him to the Rose again. Aveline hadn’t been able to look him in the eye for two days when she’d heard he’d come the last time, and she’d only relaxed when he explained – in detail – what the cause of his visit was.

         The Rose was not far from Hawke’s estate, and Fenris’ pace was quick enough to keep Donnic almost jogging to keep up. They were there in short order. This early, there couldn’t be many customers, so Donnic expected it to be quiet.

         He was wrong.

         The main hall of the Rose was empty of whores.

         No matter the hour of the day, some sort of business was usually going on at the Blooming Rose. Guards and Templars and nobles and workers all had varied schedules, and pleasure had to be fit in where it could, but as they entered none of the workers were in the hall.

         Fenris either didn’t notice or didn’t care. His quick steps took him into the main hall without pause in the foyer.

         It looked as though there had been some sort of a brawl, and at the sight of that, Fenris did stop. Chairs were strewn about, and at least one table looked to be broken. There were daggers embedded in the wall. Viveka was attempting to clean up a bit with one of the whores lending a hand, and Madame Luisine had her eyes narrowed dangerously at the door to the banquet room. She was leaning against the bar, and someone was making very slow work of cleaning the surface of it. There were voices coming from the direction of the hall that the madam was glaring at.

         “What’s all this, then?” Donnic asked.

         “Arrest the wench,” Lusine snapped, pointing in the direction of the banquet room with a jerky wave of her hand, “no one’s this good of a customer.”

         Fenris paused, shoulders clenching a little, and shrugged his sword higher on his back. He turned towards the banquet room, Hawke’s mabari at his heel.

         “Is that you, elf?”

         Donnic started, not having heard the door open or close behind them. “Who is-?”

         “Varric,” Fenris replied in an angry growl. Donnic wasn’t entirely surprised to see Varric there. Somehow the dwarf always turned up when it had something to do with Hawke.

         “Don’t be like that, broody,” Varric replied, “I only found out after you two left. I wouldn’t _dream_ of doing this without you.”

         “I doubt that,” Fenris replied.

         There was a loud noise from the banquet room, and all four of them turned to look at it. The noise was followed by a hearty moan.

         “Is that Isabela?” Donnic asked.

         “Probably,” Varric replied.

         “Her friends are missing and she’s-”

         “Everyone handles stress differently,” Varric replied with a shrug.

         Fenris grumbled something and turned to head for the door.

         Varric hurried after him, and Donnic followed. The group of them made it just as Fenris headed through the open door to the banquet hall. 

         Every time he’d met Isabela, he got a different impression of the pirate woman. She was sort of like a hurricane, in that respect, every encounter was different. He had a general impression of her beyond the sensual lips and impressive cleavage, and it was a good one. When she made friends, she kept them. Though Aveline would never admit it, Isabela was one of hers. They quarreled like sisters and hated each other, but there was a decency about it. Isabela flirted with everyone, was hands-on with everyone, but since the wedding, Donnic had barely gotten his ear flicked when they talked, and she seemed more of a ship’s captain than a seductive pirate queen when they talked.

         Whatever else Isabela might have been, the way she was riding the man she had spread across the table made it more than obvious that she didn’t expect to be disturbed.

         Donnic stopped when he saw her and the state of the room. Varric did the same on the other side of the door, and Hawke’s mabari sat down behind them. The tunic she wore was loose enough that it hung down off her shoulders. From his spot in the doorway, Donnic could only see the glisten of the skin where her thick hair swayed against her back. Averting his eyes, Donnic saw that her current partner was not the only one. There were two other men and a woman, half-naked and half-conscious, slumped against the wall.

         Fenris headed straight into the room without pause.

         “Oh _come on!_ ” Isabela shouted. She sat upright more firmly, grinding her hips down onto those of her partner hard enough to elicit a low groan. When she received nothing else, she slapped the man across the face. “I thought Templar were supposed to be unstoppable!” She drew her hand back to slap the man again, but Fenris caught her wrist. “That had better be-” Isabela began, but stopped when she turned to see who it was. “Fenris.”

         Even though he told himself not to look, Donnic couldn’t help himself. When Isabela turned, Donnic could see how undone the laces of her corset were. Two tanned, full breasts hung in the wide opening of her tunic, and Donnic would not be ashamed to admit he stared at them unless it was Aveline who was asking him.

         “Isabela-” Fenris was frowning, and Isabela leaned forward. Her arm curled around his neck and she leaned against him.

         It was more than Donnic had ever seen anyone touch Fenris without being rebuffed. Fenris didn’t even stiffen as he normally did. His arm slowly circled her waist.

         That was strange, given the way that Fenris spoke of Hawke. Fenris could be ambivalent about much, a stance that Donnic had slowly puzzled out was born of stubbornness in the face of ignorance. Hawke was the exception. Though he’d never been told by either of them, Donnic was certain that Fenris and Hawke were together, but he’d never seen Hawke do more than nudge his arm or pull him to his feet in company. But when he spoke of her, when he looked at her, something about Fenris softened. He seemed reverent about her.

         So this was…

         Isabela pressed her lips to his, and Fenris finally reacted more how Donnic expected. His arm tightened around her waist and Fenris gave a rough yank, pulling her bodily from her seat on the Templar. Whatever she was complaining of had nothing to do with the man she’d been astride. With a relieved sigh, the Templar sank back down to the table heavily, and his spent length fell between his legs.

         Donnic had enough of watching this. He was worried, and he had no need of being aroused along with it. He turned, ignoring the sympathetic look that Varric offered, and headed back out into the hall.

         “What was that for?” Isabela grumbled from behind him.

         As he entered the main room, Donnic found Baskerville stood with his back to the banquet hall, ears flattened on its head and fangs bared.

         Having almost forgotten about the hound, Donnic was surprised to see it so alert. He looked around for what had set it’s hackles.

         Lusine was leaning motionless against the bar, her lips still pulled down into the scowl from before. Viveka and Jethann stood with one of the tables half-righted between them. It seemed much as it had before, but everyone was motionless except the man slowly cleaning the bartop.

         Behind him he could hear Isabela talking, “-and you never ran out on me after.”

         “ _Stand up_ ,” Fenris snarled, loud enough that it echoed into the hall.

         The man behind the bar startled, and looked up.

         It wasn’t Quintus.

         As their eyes met, the man scowled, and then his eyes flashed. The surface of the bar lit in front of him.

         Donnic went for his sword, but found himself frozen. It was hideous to be frozen in place like that. He could breathe and swallow, but everything from his feet to the top of his head was stuck. From the corner of his eye, Donnic could see the mabari leap over the bar, crashing into the mage with the full force of its bulk.

 

*

 

         There was nowhere to go, at first. The walls were rock, as was the ceiling and the disgusting floor. Aveline had checked all the walls on her watch, but Sebastian felt the need to check them again. He was glad that he did, because he found an impression. And whoever had left their armor hadn’t been paying much attention to what they had beneath it. Several tries of Sebastian’s dagger and he had the recessed passage open, and he and Aveline made their way into it.

         It was low, and it smelled, and the smell of it wasn’t the most encouraging thing. Not only was the stone still warm, but as they leaned on the walls of the passage to make their way out, they found claw marks big enough that even Hawke’s mabari could not have made them.

         Aveline made a disgruntled noise, and the two of them paused to tighten their armor. It was easier to move with it loose, but anything that attacked them would be more liable to tear pieces of them off if it had jaws to go with those claws.

         “So that was a compost heap,” Aveline muttered.

         “A… what?” Sebastian asked. He finished with the straps on his armor and picked his dagger up again.

         “I almost forgot you grew up in a palace,” Aveline said, heaving a breath.

         Sebastian suspected that the guardswoman had sustained some sort of injury to her ribcage that was making breathing difficult, but as she seemed no worse off than he, he didn’t insult her by asking about it. “What do you mean?”

         “It’s more practical to let food trash fertilize something,” Aveline said. “Anyone who’s farmed is likely to have a place where they mix scrap together.”

         Sebastian chuckled.

         “What?” Aveline asked, with a slight wheeze to go along with it.

         “We had hogs,” Sebastian replied. “A far more… efficient use of the scrap was to fatten them with it.” He contemplated the tunnel, which had a bit more light than the cave had. There had to be something at the end of it that made the marks, and that meant they’d have to fight their way free, somehow. Whether it was an insult or not, he had to ask. “Are you alright, Aveline?”

         “What do you mean?” the warrior replied, leveraging herself upright with the help of the wall.

         “Your breathing has seemed labored.”

         “Nothing seems broken,” she replied. “Probably a cracked rib or two. You’re heavier than you look.”

         “I could say the same,” Sebastian said, offering a smile. “Will you tell me if it gets worse?”

         “I’ve no reason to hide it,” Aveline said with a frown. “Let’s just get moving. We can’t know how long we were down there, and what’s happened in the meantime.”

         “I’m sure Hawke is fine,” Sebastian said.

         “I’m not.”

         Sebastian found he had no argument for that. Aveline straightened up and jerked her head towards the incline. Sebastian nodded and the two of them made their way cautiously upwards.

         Strangely, it was just as warm as they made their way up as it had been down in the cave. That was strange, considering the coastline around Kikwall. Caves tended to be of the damp, dank variety, and the air was humid in this season. That it was warm was disturbing.

         Aveline slowed, holding up a hand.

         Sebastian crept closer, and looked over her shoulder.

         He was falling back into his old habits easily, it seemed, in Hawke’s company’s company. Rather than the gasp he might have let out in the Chantry, he sucked in a breath through his nostrils.

         There was some sort of a ravine out there, and there looked to be dragons in it. Aveline’s hand lowered slowly, her fist clenching at her side. She took a step backwards, one that Sebastian mimicked. The two of them retreated halfway down the tunnel before Aveline stopped.

         “Maker take it,” she huffed.

         “It’s only dragons,” Sebastian said, “and certainly the Maker-”

         “If you start in on the Chant of Light right now, I promise they will be your last words.”

         “What I was intending to say was that the Maker has very little to do with us having been drugged and dumped in the middle of nowhere.”

         “It’s not the middle of nowhere,” Aveline said with a shake of her head. “We’re in the Bone Pit.”

*

 

         Isabela could feel heaviness in her body. She’d spent hours struggling against the hold on her, but all she had managed to do was flex her muscles and induce the awful heavy feeling. It was all she was able to do. She had been made a passenger in her own body, subjected to watching and experiencing what was done through her.

         When the spell released her, Isabela’s whole body went limp. If Fenris hadn’t kept his arm around her waist, she’d have crumpled to the floor with the release of her body back into her own control. Parts of her were sore, bleeding, and probably bruised.

         Fenris’ arm tightened around her, and he gave her a rough shake. “I am in no humor for-”

         “You’re never in _any humor_ ,” Isabela groaned, finding her fingers so she could catch his shoulders to keep from flopping backwards awkwardly.

         The grip on her gentled immediately.

         Considering the things she’d said, she almost wished it hadn’t.

         There was a scuffle going on in the main hall. From what she could remember after waking up from that nasty poison, there were more important things to worry about than weak knees, a bruised ego, and a few rounds of hot Templar action. “What’s going on out there?”

         “Can you stand?” Fenris asked.

         “Not yet, but I can sit,” Isabela replied. She was beginning to be able to feel her legs again, at least. “Let me go and let’s see.”

         Fenris was staring at her, mouth set in a disapproving line. He half-carried her back to the table with the half-naked templar on it, but he didn’t let her go.

         “Oh no, not _that_ look again,” Isabela said, pushing against his shoulders. “I’ll be fine.” He released her when she pushed, but the scowl remained on his lips as she settled heavily onto the bench. “Go help the others. I’ll be out in a minute.”

         Whatever Fenris was thinking, he didn’t argue. He turned without comment and left the room.

         Isabela was glad for a moment of quiet, and glad that she needn’t stare down his concern. Fenris was funny like that, and she thought she knew it for exactly what it was. With so long of having nothing, he was desperately protective of what he _did_ have. She’d felt the same once she’d been freed, but what she had to hold onto was her freedom. For a while that seemed what he’d wanted as well, but in the end, Fenris seemed to have chosen… differently.

         It had come as a bit of a surprise when she realized it, but by then Isabela was fond enough of Fenris that she didn’t grudge him anything that made him happy. They weren’t bad for each other, but they didn’t want the same things.

         What he’d chosen was fine for Hawke, Hawke liked that sort of-

         “Hawke.”

         The last few hours, distasteful as they were, fell away, and Isabela groped for what she could remember. Varric had said something about Hawke missing and Fenris’ mood, hadn’t he?

         They had been coming out of the hole in the Undercity where the Fereldan girl had gone abomination on them, and then everything had seemed to slow down and there was a very thick, very nasty smoke, and everything had gone black.

         The next thing she could remember was someone looming over her, and then her whole body had moved without her say-so, and when she tried to stop it she’d found that she couldn’t move it on her own, like she was made of lead rather than flesh.

         A fireball hit the doorframe, bathing it in heat.

         It must be a mage, then.

         Isabela shrugged her tunic back up and gave a quick tug to the laces at the front to close it enough to keep her breasts in it. She gabbed the nearest weapon she could find – unfortunately it was a chair, as she didn’t have the strength to wield the Templars’ weapons – and rushed into the main room.

         Usually with odds like four against one, a battle went easily, even if the opponent was a mage. But something was different. Fenris was not moving as quickly as usual, which seemed to be throwing Varric off, and Donnic was no Hawke. Hawke’s mabari was caught in some sort of a trap, and the mage was throwing spells _and_ dodging.

         Pretty good for a lone apostate.

         Not good enough to best the four of them, but certainly good enough to cause trouble. Were mages this much trouble? The abomination certainly had been a rough fight, but nothing insurmountable. Apparently Hawke _was_ what tipped things in their favor.

         She wasn’t the only thing that did that, though.

         Isabela slipped into the shadows and rounded the edges of the room, coming up behind the mage. It wasn’t as easy as it ought to have been. Her body still wasn’t entirely her own, and there were spells and crossbow bolts going back and forth that she had to avoid. Still, she made it to where she needed to be. She swung the chair into his head as hard as she could, and the mage crumpled just like any other combatant in any other taproom brawl.

         The last volley of spells landed, but no more flew, and Hawke’s mabari broke free of whatever had been holding it.

         She spat on the man’s back.

         “Let’s tie him up before he wakes,” Varric said, coming over. There were scorch marks on his duster, and his hair looked a bit singed. It was Isabela’s favorite look on him, honestly, but now certainly wasn’t the time to go into that. After what had happened, that ought to be the last thing that came to her mind.

         “Agreed,” Donnic said.

         None of them had rope handy, but Fenris put one foot on the mage’s back to hold him down, and the other two men went about looking for a rope or something.

         “Bloody mages,” Lusine said. She came over and handed restraints to Isabela. “I trust you’ll take care of this, Isabela.”

         “It’ll be my pleasure,” she replied.

 

*

 

         Elodie knew she was in the Fade when she saw the little farm house they’d all shared in Lothering. She knew it, and she embraced it. She couldn’t recall if she had just fallen asleep or why she was dreaming – it seemed she had had something important to do – but it didn’t matter. These were her favorite dreams, the ones where she could be with everyone who’d gone, even if it was a lie. It was a nice lie, at least. Eager for the company, she sprinted for the house, but she couldn’t seem to reach it. Every time she thought she was near, it turned out that she had made no progress.

         The Fade was tricky that way, especially if you weren’t a mage. Or at least Bethany had said as much once when Elodie had related a rather troubling inability to reach her intended destination.

         Somehow this felt different though.

         Elodie stopped running. “Someone’s there,” she said.

         “I’ve… checked in on you from time to time,” a hesitant voice admitted.

         Turning, Elodie tensed. She had not realized she was not alone, though that wasn’t abnormal either, she supposed. There was no one visible behind her.

         “You were always so kind to me. Better than you had any reason to be. And your dreams are so exciting.”

         Again she turned, and again there was no one. It was a rather timid voice for a demon to be using, but she supposed that if all demons sounded demonic, no one would ever fall for their schemes. It didn’t _feel_ like a demon, any road, but she did know someone who would have no trouble keeping her in the Fade.

         “My dreams are nightmares, I’d hate to think what you find exciting about them, Feynriel.”

         All in a rush, Feynriel materialized in front of her. He was a little pink in the face, and his hair was different than she remembered, but it was definitely Feynriel. He offered her a little smile. “How did you know it was me?”

         “Because the last time I spoke with a demon they weren’t nearly as timid. Thanks for coming out, it’s a bit strange talking to thin air.”

         “Nothing’s really strange in the Fade,” Feynriel said.

         “You’d know, I guess,” Elodie replied. There was silence between them for a moment, and that was stranger than it ought to be, so Elodie asked, “So, how’s Tevinter treating you?”

         “There’s an awful lot of blood magic,” Feynriel said, but shrugged. “And it’s hot.”

         “You’re probably the most well-traveled mage in generations,” Elodie replied, “I don’t even think my father ever went to Tevinter.”

         “Did he study with the Dalish, too?”

         Elodie chuckled and shook her head. “No. I don’t think he did that either. We traded with them, though.”

         “Then how did you know the Keeper would…?”

         “My friend Merrill,” Elodie said. “She’s Dalish, or she was before she left them.”

         “Oh right,” Feynriel said. “The dark haired one with the demon problem.”

         “With the what?” Elodie asked.

         Feynriel started to answer, but Elodie doubled over as pain stabbed straight through her. Before she could topple over completely, Feynriel caught her by the arms.

         “I was afraid of this,” Feynriel said as he helped her to ease down to the ground.

         “Afraid of… what?” Elodie coughed out.

         “The people who have you are hurting you,” he said.

         “The people who-”

         “I’m not surprised if you don’t remember. You took a nasty blow to the head, and if you’re remembering correctly there was quite a bit of some foul smoke and you smelled blood.”

         The pain came again, and Elodie fought back a scream. She couldn’t hold herself still. Her back arched and she pitched forward into Feynriel.

         And then her eyes were open, and the muted colors and soft edges of the Fade were gone. All she could see was one of those annoyingly non-descript caves that looked enough like the entrance to the Deep Roads to send a shiver down her spine.

         “Ah, _Champion_ ,” a rather nasal-sounding man’s voice said.

         She didn’t recognize the voice.

         “How good of you to _join me_ ,” he snarled. And then there was that hideous pain again, and her whole back wasn’t in pain, it was _on fire_. She tried to arch away from the feeling, but her body wouldn’t obey her. Everything went slack from the pain of whatever was being done to her back. It came again and again, and whatever it was sent the burning feeling through her like waves of fire.

         She was probably screaming, because there was a loud noise in her ears, but she couldn’t feel the sound being ripped out of her throat. She couldn’t feel anything but the hot agony of her back.

         And then it stopped, and she was left with aftershocks. She thought she sagged against whatever was holding her upright, and she could feel her head fall forward, but it was strange, almost like her body was disconnected from her mind.

         There was a noise behind her, almost like panting, but it was distant to her ears. In the absence of the pain that consumed her, there was a dead space, a hollow in her that had to be the place that she usually pulled all her anger from when she worked up a good battle rage.

         The pain didn’t matter, a soft voice whispered from that space, the pain would come in handy later.

         There were more pressing concerns, like how she couldn’t feel her hands or her feet. It felt almost like they weren’t there, but they had to be. She could make out her hands in the corner of her eye when she managed to open them again. There was blood on her, and she was mostly bare to the waist, but she couldn’t feel herself.

         “Nothing to say, Champion? I was always led to believe you were quite a _wit!_ ”

         And then the fire started again. It didn’t hurt quite as much as she thought it should, but she could feel that hollow place more as the pain rushed into it.

         “You elf-loving… unwashed … dog lord… bitch!” Each slur came with a blow of what had to be some sort of a whip, but whoever was wielding it didn’t seem in the proper shape to use it. The force of the blows was painful, but the strength behind them was incomplete.

         Of course, she had to remind herself, even a blow of middling force would be enough to cut into her skin if it was repeated enough on bare skin. From the wet noise of the whip’s impact, she’d probably sustained more damage than she was recognizing. Not surprising, since she till couldn’t find her furthest extremities.        

         The noise of her abuser’s panting echoed in whatever space they were in. Elodie closed her eyes against the rush of her own pulse and the throb of pain she could feel.

         “Do you truly have nothing to say for yourself?”

         “Did you… come up with all that… on your own?” she asked as she sagged forward, chuckling.

         “Ahh,” the man said with a sick sounding chuckle, “ _there you are_.”

         Elodie’s chuckle turned into a cough. Whatever smoke Feynriel had mentioned seemed to still be in her lungs.

         There were footsteps, and then a hand grabbed her by the hair. Her head was dragged back so that all she could see was the dark roof of the cavern.

         “You don’t even know who I am, do you?” The voice was very close, coming from behind her as though her captor had bent to speak to her, and a rush of wine-thick breath rushed around her. It was the expensive kind, she thought, but could make out no more than that.

         With her head stretched back like that, her voice came out in a rasp, “Not in the slightest.”

         There was a sharp pain to the back of her head.

         Blissfully, blackness followed in short order.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who's reviewed and kudos-ed and read in the last... months, thank you very much. If I haven't replied individually to your reviews, my sincerest apologies.


	15. Chapter 15

  
         Varric was relieved that Isabela was alright. For a moment it had looked as though Fenris might shove his hand into her in, as she called it, ‘the not-fun-way’. The mage was unexpected, especially given the information he’d had before.  
   
        Of course he talked.

         Apostates in Kirkwall tended to be a hardy breed, but this one was faced with four angry adventurers who were skilled companions of a known and respected warrior, and a guardsman to make it all legitimate. It only took a bit of knocking about to get the mage to sing like a canary, the odds were stacked against him, and he hadn’t the experience with torture that would help him hold out. It wasn’t quite the eloquent, heroic interrogation that Varric would write it up as, but time was running short, and it had been effective enough. The mage – Howard, or something equally as dull as that – had been hired by some foreign mercenaries to help set up an ambush in Darktown. He’d not been told who it was, and had stayed out of sight until he’d been called on. With all the swords, what was he supposed to do?

         Afterwards – or ‘after the words’, as Varric preferred – Isabela and Fenris dragged the man out the back into the alley. Donnic looked mildly uncomfortable with that turn of events, but Varric wasn’t sure if it was the state of Isabela’s tunic or the fact that they were going to dispose of someone. Either way the guardsman hadn’t protested. Instead he’d stepped over to help Viveka and Jethann with the cleaning up they had been at.

         There was barely a scream, and both Fenris and Isabela had some blood on them when they came back, but they might have gone out with it from the tussle beforehand. Varric knew how he’d write that section of the daring rescue when he got around to penning this part of the Champion’s exploits, he didn’t need to see it first hand.

         “Who do we know in Darktown?” Donnic asked as the other two returned.

         “Who _don’t_ we know in Darktown?” Isabela muttered. She was re-lacing her bodice, and had picked up her gloves from somewhere.

         “That’s not a good enough answer,” Donnic said.

         Fenris was noticeably silent. He was adjusting his gauntlets, pulling them down his hands compulsively, as though the motion could make them fit tighter… or something. It was… eerie to say the least, and Varric had the dubious pleasure of having seen Fenris high on deep mushrooms before. Usually in an instance like this when Fenris cared about the outcome – and Maker knew Fenris cared what happened to Hawke – the elf had some opinion or suggestion to offer.

         Varric glanced over at Baskerville, but the mabari didn’t seem concerned by his behavior. Generally the hound was pretty good at gauging when a fight was going to break out. It seemed to enjoy tearing things apart, as any pet or companion of Hawke’s ought to, but the mutt was more concerned with sniffing one of the floor tiles than tensing to attack.

         Well, at least Fenris wasn’t about to kill anyone that was present.

         Anyone else, at least.

         “It’s accurate, though,” Varric said. “Hawke spends a good deal of time down there. Tomwise and some of the refugees are acquaintances, and there’s always the odd job requiring knocking a few skulls together. We’ll talk to the Coterie, they’ll have an answer.”

         “They could have been the ones to plan this,” Donnic replied.

         Isabela snorted. “When they try to kill Hawke, it’s with numbers, and occasionally poison. If they’d chosen to move on to abduction, they wouldn’t have bothered releasing _me.”_

         “We’ll still have a word with them. And by we, I mean I,” Varric added quickly. “Because next to nothing happens in Darktown that they don’t have an eye on. So stay here, and I’ll be back when I have news.”

         Donnic and Isabela both started to voice protest. Fenris just growled. Sometimes, the elf was more like his namesake than his nick-namesake.

         “You can’t go,” Varric pointed at Donnic, “because no one in their right mind chats about business with a guard lingering about. You lot do tend to lock people up for… things.”

         A scowl took over the lower half of Donnic’s face, but he didn’t argue. Varric turned to Fenris and Isabela, “And you two-”

         “You will not do this without me,” the elf replied simply, face a cold mask.

         “What he said,” Isabela jerked a thumb at Fenris before folding her arms across her chest.

         Varric had been of the opinion that it was better for Fenris to stay behind and not murder anyone, and had been hoping that Isabela would clue into that strategy, but he was obviously wrong. Unlike the mage they’d just squeezed, any member of the Coterie that knew what they wanted to find out would be far better at withstanding ‘polite interrogation’.

         Unfortunately, the look on the elf’s face told Varric that he was better off not arguing, and Fenris _had_ been on rather good behavior. He was surprisingly level-headed, given the way he’d looked when he walked into the Hanged Man the night before with _Blondie_ of all people.

         And there was a certain degree of menacing that his particular height and brand of smolder would be very good at accomplishing.

         Hopefully Isabela would keep the elf from getting ahead of himself.

         “Alright, then,” Varric said. “Just don’t out-run me on the way there.”

         “Who do we need to talk to in the Coterie?” Isabela asked, retrieving one of her blades from the wall it had been sunken into sometime earlier in the evening.

         “That depends on who’s out,” Varric replied. “If we’re lucky, someone reasonable.”

         “And if you _aren’t_ lucky?” Donnic asked.

         Isabela shrugged and went about retrieving her other blade. Varric watched her for a moment as she bent and picked up her belt where she’d dropped it, and fixed it back around her waist. She seemed to be alright, but Varric knew that appearances could be deceiving, especially where blood magic was involved.

         “Well. There _is_ a reason that you’re staying here, Donnic,” Varric replied.

*  
 

         The four of them – Fenris, Varric, Isabela, and the mabari – were descending towards Darktown when Varric fell into stride beside him and asked in a low voice, “Are you going to be ok for this?”

         Fenris resisted the urge to snarl in response. He felt far too restless, and all the walking back and forth was becoming tedious. Blackness threatened at the edge of his vision. The longer he forced his eyes to remain open, the heavier they felt. More than just his eyelids, his whole body felt as though it were deep underwater, and it was only through the strength of his will that he kept it moving. It had been years since he had felt the need to remain awake for this long in a single stretch.

         His frustration with the lack of answers, with the lack of _Hawke,_ was growing. He almost wished that Kirkwall were Minrathos. The climate would be more agreeable, and there would be fewer steps. In Minrathos, he had known how to get the answers he required. In Minrathos, he would have ripped through someone for the answers he sought. In Minrathos, he-

         In Minrathos, he had been a slave. He was a weapon crafted by his master, and blind obedience fueled his actions.

         He was a slave no longer.

         Kirkwall was not Minrathos, and he reminded himself, **_again,_ ** that acting here as he would have there would not necessarily yield the desired result.

         It was empty advice. The longer this went on, the more knotted up his insides felt. The longer this lingered, the less he was able to believe what reason offered him. Hawke was…

         Elodie was…

         “Elf?”

         Varric had asked a question. Ahead of them, Baskerville pricked an ear back towards them. Isabela kept onwards, muttering to herself and stomping down the stairs. Fenris glanced at the dwarf. “What do you mean by that?”

         “I have to be able to get questions out,” Varric said, brows furrowed thoughtfully. “You look about ready to murder something… or pass out.”

         _“Some activity_ would be preferable to doing nothing,” Fenris growled out, pleased to unleash his words if nothing else, “which is what all this wandering up and down steps has been.”

         “We have something to work with,” Varric replied, voice set in a tone that ought to be soothing to someone angry. To Fenris, it just sounded condescending. “Much sooner now than if you hadn’t raised the alarm so quickly.”

         Fenris didn’t reply. He had no good response for that. He had been quick to alert the others, but it had, so far, been unhelpful. His usefulness had ended there, and now he was faced with Hawke’s absence and his own failure to find her. He had not slept since the night before she failed to meet him, and his body felt as though it were turning to stone slowly. His skin was tight, and it was beginning to feel sensitive. He would be _even more_ useless if this continued, and finding her was the only cure for it.

         “Not that you’re going to listen to that one,” Varric conceded.

         “Astute,” Fenris replied.

         “She’ll be _fine,_ elf.”

         Rather than voice doubt, hoping deep inside for Varric’s words to be accurate, Fenris grunted in response and continued down the stairs. They still had to reach Lowtown, and then from Lowtown they had to reach Darktown. It was a long way, yet.

         “I’m not saying we’re going to find her seated on top of her captor – if there is one – smiling and waving, but Hawke’s tough. She’s-” Now the dwarf’s tone sounded convincing enough, if one were of a mind to be convinced. Fenris was not, however, and it must have showed on his face because Varric stopped in the middle of his sentence and said, “Now _I_ sound full of shit.”

         “I do not need your platitudes,” Fenris ground out.

         “That one’s worth a sovereign if you can spell it,” Varric replied.

         Not in the mood for this game, Fenris stomped ahead of the dwarf. They were close, now, and-

         “Catch.”

         Turning quickly, Fenris caught sight of the flask that had been thrown, and snatched it from the air before it hit him. The honey colored liquid sloshed in the glass container. Fenris glanced at Varric, confused.

         “Consider it a pick-me-up,” Varric said, adjusting his coat and stepping past both Fenris and the mabari as he added, “it’ll take the edge off. Unless you plan to take a moment to rest?”

         Fenris snorted.

         “What I thought. Don’t worry about it, there’s more where that came from. Hawke makes a habit of keeping a stock of them. At the time she said something about needing her lightweights to keep up with her heavyweights.”

         Fenris ground his teeth together. The last thing he wanted to do was be regaled with stories of Hawke from times when she was alright. It was too disturbing, too much like she was gone, and he refused to listen to that sort of thing. Instead he broke the wax stopper on the vial with one of the claws on his gauntlet and drank the contents of the vial.

         Potions generally made his skin crawl. They tended to react with the lyrium in his system. It made the potion more potent, but served to make him nauseous. This one was no different. The thick liquid on his tongue was overly sweet, and as it washed down his throat he felt the clenched muscles of his stomach turn over. Thankfully there was nothing in his stomach to lose, but the feeling of it was disorienting. Slowly, as the thick potion made its way down his throat, the tight feeling of his skin loosened, and the black receded from the edge of his vision.

         Taking an experimental step, Fenris found it was no longer willpower that kept him moving. He still felt like he was underwater, but he was no longer sinking. He started to thank the dwarf, but as he tried to open his mouth, his stomach protested with a savage cramp and he had to clench his jaw to keep from doubling over.

         Varric was watching him. Fenris nodded sharply at Varric and motioned the dwarf to precede him. Varric nodded in reply.

         “Rivani, a word,” Varric said as he hurried forward to catch up to the pirate and the mabari.

         Fenris forced his thoughts to stay on Hawke, and pressed his lips together against the pain. The mabari slowed to match his stride and pressed against his side in support, and Fenris was glad of the assistance.

         The other two led the way as they descended into Darktown. Fenris followed, moving more sedately with the mabari as they headed down into the stinking filth of the Undercity.

         The Coterie contact they were looking for was tucked back in an alley as dirty as the rest of Darktown when they found her. She fell silent as they approached. Fenris felt his lips curl back and a growl work its way out of his chest as he recognized the woman. He was not good with names of people like this, but he was very good at remembering faces. This one was not so terribly different because she styled her hair the same way that Hawke did. Fenris hated the comparison, and ground his teeth together against the rush of anger that it caused. He could recall the last scrape Hawke had with the woman, and his impression was no more pleasant now than it had been then.

         “Why do you look so hunted every time I come to see you?” Varric asked, letting out a charming laugh. Isabela stood to the side, arms folded across herself tightly as though restraining herself.

         Fenris hung back behind them. He did not manage to follow the conversation much. His stomach was slow to settle down from the potion, and he could feel the lyrium flickering to life up and down his whole body. The sensation was uncomfortable, like having ants crawling along him.

         And then an exclamation came from Isabela. “But Hawke put them down _years ago,”_ she scoffed. Her posture had relaxed slightly.

         “I’m surprised at you starting to believe the dwarf’s tripe. You think the Champion went all the way to Nevarra and hunted down the rest of the Winters?”

         “She didn’t _have to,”_ Varric replied, “they were easier to clear off than you lot.” The barker hissed a warning at that, but Varric ignored it. “So someone hired them to come back and snatch the Champion. Who was it?”

         “Only so much for free, Tethras,” the woman sneered.

         In quick succession, three things happened. The Coterie woman lifted a hand to toss something, Bianca spat a bolt straight into the woman’s wrist hard enough to send her back into the rock wall behind her, and one of Isabela’s daggers went straight through her lifted hand and lodged through it into the rock. Whatever had been in the woman’s hand dropped harmlessly to the floor.        

         Fenris had not even seen the two of them move.

         “You want to rethink that,” Isabela said in a low voice. There was a musical quality to her voice most of the time, but this one was dull and flat. It was one of the more dangerous tones to hear coming out of her, at least in Fenris’ experience. She twirled her other dagger slowly. The mabari growled.

         “Rivani!” Varric snapped. He turned to the woman and shook his head. “I’m sorry about that,” Varric said, “but you see, we’re _very concerned_ about our missing friends, and the three of them can be a bit… unreasonable when people turn uncooperative.”

         _“Most_ unreasonable,” Isabela said.

         Fenris growled, more at the churning sensation in his stomach than at any cue. His lyrium flashed. It was still too soon to be using it, but he couldn’t help it. He clenched his fists against the wave of sick feeling the lyrium pulse caused.

         “Now,” Varric shifted Bianca in his grip, aiming casually, “I suggest you tell us what we want to know.”

         The woman’s eyes narrowed and she glared. “Piss off!”

         Fenris knew Varric could be most effective, and that undoubtedly he and Isabela had some strategy to get the woman to talk, but whatever he planned would take time, and that was unacceptable. They had lost too much time already. Elodie was in danger. Enough was enough. In this state, he couldn’t be certain that he’d be able to put his hand through the uncooperative woman without killing her, and Varric had made a very good point about them needing her alive.  So with a grunt, Fenris darted two steps forward, and took the woman by the neck.  “Tell us **_now,”_ ** he snarled into her ear.

         There was a supportive growl from Hawke’s mabari. Behind him Isabela let out a snort, and Varric swore.

         The woman’s eyes went wide with surprise. Then she bared her teeth at him and struggled against the grip. Fenris tightened his hand around her throat in warning. He could feel the claws of his gauntlet press into her skin.

         For a long moment they were at an impasse, but then her air started to run out. He could see it in the way that her face began to flush and color started to show in the whites of her eyes.

         “I will not repeat myself,” Fenris said in a low voice.

         She nodded, once. Fenris loosened his grip enough so that she could breathe. The woman’s head turned to the side, away from him, and she gasped, “I don’t know who hired them.”

         “But you know _something,”_ Fenris growled in warning.

         “Just as they- they dumped the others!”

         “Obviously,” Isabela ground out from behind him.

         “You may not want to hold out on us,” Varric grumbled from behind him. “The elf doesn’t know how to follow a good plan.”

         Fenris’ patience was wearing thin.

         The woman’s eyes flicked over to the dwarf, and then back to Fenris. “Something about takin’ the muckity mucks to the Bone Pit,” she said.

         “I hate the mountains,” Varric grumbled. From the sound of his booted footsteps, the dwarf was headed off.

         “If you have lied,” Fenris said, leaning forward to whisper his words against the Coterie woman’s ear, “there will be nowhere to hide from me.”

         “Sod off, you-!” the woman started.

         With a snarl, Fenris pressed the claws of his gauntlet into her neck, flaring his lyrium to push his grip past the bounds of her skin. It hurt to do it, but the pain was worth it. Her eyes widened considerably further than they had in shock, _this_ pain drawing a stronger reaction from her.

         Releasing the woman, Fenris kept his eyes on her as he stepped back. She stared at him, free hand lifting to her abused throat. Her fingers trembled as she touched her skin.

         She looked too much like Hawke, in that moment.

         Fenris tensed, ready to rid Darktown of an imposter like-

         Isabela smacked him in the arm with the flat of her dagger. Fenris growled, turning to glare at Isabela, but got caught in her eyes. There was a particularly hard look in them, one that matched the flat tone of her voice from earlier.

         It was enough to let a little reason in past the haze of his rage.

         “Elf! Rivani! You coming?”

         And a little reason would have to be enough, for now.

         Isabela moved forward and collected her dagger from the woman’s hand. She did it slowly, and Fenris was certain that some words passed between the two women, but the rage and the churning feeling in his stomach distracted him enough that he could not hear it. Once the blade was free, Isabela sheathed them both on her back. She turned, tapping Fenris on the arm again as she sauntered past him, and gave a short whistle to the mabari.

         The Coterie woman looked livid, but the color of her skin was too pale beneath the dark fall of her hair.

         She was scared.

         Her face no longer looked like Hawke’s.

         It was enough, for now.

         Fenris turned and followed after Isabela and Varric.   
   
 

*  
   
 

         Donnic was as patient as he could possibly be, but that wasn’t much. At first he waited around the Hanged Man for the four of them to return. Varric had assured him that was where they would go afterwards before they’d started their descent into Darktown. Donnic’s patience lasted all of half an hour before he was pacing, and when he ran into Nora, she told him to take his pacing outside or to order something.

         He went outside.

         It was full morning, now, and the streets were starting to make daytime noises. In the bazaar the vendors were squabbling with one another as they opened up their shops.

         “Oy! Donnic!”

         Turning, he wasn’t entirely surprised to see Sergeant Melindra hailing him. “Sergeant?”

         She offered him a smile, but didn’t reply until she got closer and she could drop her voice. “Any word on the Captain?”

         Resisting the urge to frown, Donnic shook his head. “Some of the Champions companions are… making a few discrete inquiries.”

         “Not the sort of thing they wanted you along for, I suspect,” Melindra replied. “They’re a… colorful bunch.”

         Were he in better spirits, Donnic would agree. He had no news, no leads, and no patience for the lack of either, though. “Something I can help you with?”

         “I got a word about some strange sale item down at the docks.”

         “Something to do with my smugglers?” Donnic asked. He was surprisingly eager to have something to do, as he was no longer able to be of any active use in the search for Aveline and Hawke.

         “Maybe,” Melindra said. “Maybe not, but after what Orwald said you cleaned up at the Rose this morning, I thought it might be of interest, at least.”

         Donnic lifted a brow at her.

         “Something about some enchanted merchandise.”

         “Why do you bring that up to me?”

         “Well whoever it was that had it shipped in didn’t go through the dwarves to get it, an’ it didn’t come out of the Gallows. As you’re in on the lyrium smuggling cutthroats, I thought it might have to do with them.”

         “Was it a solid lead?” Donnic asked.

         “I wouldn’t bring it to you if it wasn’t,” Melindra replied.

         “Where was-”

         “Slow down, elf!” a familiar voice echoed across the street.

         Donnic turned in time to see Fenris stomping quickly towards the entrance of the Hanged Man with Hawke’s mabari at his heels. Behind him Isabela, Varric, and Anders trailed.

         “I don’t know why you bother saying that, _you’re_ not exactly calm either,” Anders said.

         “Aw, did we get Anders out of bed too early?” Isabela teased.

         “Rivaini, did you just assume blondie had even _been to bed yet?_ Manifestos are-”

         They were back.

         Obviously there was no time to follow up on this lead now. If they were back, it meant that they had some lead that needed checking, and he-

         “That the Champion’s lot?” Melindra interrupted his thoughts with.

         “The same,” Donnic said. He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Fenris!”

         The elf froze mid-step, as though jerked to a stop by the call of his name. He turned swiftly in response. It was odd the way he did that whenever Donnic shouted to him.

         “Good luck findin’ the captain, then,” Melindra said. She patted him on the shoulder.

         A twinge of guilt stabbed Donnic in the side. He turned to the Sergeant and said, “When I get back, I-”

         “I’ll leave a report for you at the barracks,” Melindra assured him with a little nod before she turned and headed for the bazaar.

         Mollified that he’d at least get word of it later, Donnic turned his attention to Fenris and the others and moved to join them. “What did you learn?”

         “We are headed to the Bone Pit,” Fenris said. His tone was clipped, like he was restraining himself. He shifted from one foot to the other as though he was agitated, and his brows were drawn tightly together.

         It was not the picture of someone coming for a triumphant interrogation.

         “If you’ve the time to spare,” Varric added nonchalantly as he caught up to them, “we’ve decided to stage a rescue.”  
  

*   
  

         It happened like one of Varric’s ridiculous stories.

         Not that Aveline would ever admit to having read that tripe. She could appreciate Hawke’s writing, and… maybe once… or twice… or three times or… so she’d read Varric’s work to compare the two.

         They were vastly different writers.

         And this was certainly one of Varric’s plots, where the hapless heroine ends up trapped by dragons.

         If it were a story about Hawke, she’d have her broadsword out and be leaping up to stab it in the eye.

         But Hawke wasn’t here. It was just Aveline and Sebastian.

         The quantity of dragons meant that they had to retrace their steps into the compost heap cavern that they’d started out in, and had to find an alternate route. Because of where they were, that alternate route was up the way they had come down.

         Being in Hawke’s party meant there were a lot of things that happened that were uncomfortable, smelly, or painful. It was not always all of them or in that order, and sometimes what happened made Aveline feel queasy, but generally it wasn’t so bad. Hawke was a good woman, despite her faults, and tried to do good.

         Aveline reminded herself that as she followed Sebastian up an opening slick with the remains of whatever else had gone down it before. It was uncomfortable, smelly, _and_ painful. The climb was long, the rocks unsteady, and Sebastian pointed out more than once that she might consider leaving her armor to make herself lighter. All she could offer the archer was that she’d climbed out of worse places in heavier armor while fleeing worse things than this, and she wasn’t prepared to explain to the Seneschal where her armor had gone when she inevitably had to requisition a new set. Besides, she’d quipped, it wasn’t as though he was stripping his off for the climb.

         After that discussion there had been no more breath or strength for talking. Aveline’s ribs began burning, and by the time they reached the top her hands were so stiff that they felt as though they would never grasp a sword again.

         Sebastian led the way only by virtue of his armor being lighter. He had to have had an easier climb. It didn’t matter, though, they were both injured, and so they were both out of breath as they stumbled out of the dirty, disgusting hole.

         They were very lucky – Aveline admitted she owed their luck to Sebastian’s ability to be stealthy and the way that he cautioned her to silence as they reached the top – in evading the dragonlings as they made their escape from the mines.

         It was a dismal sight to come out to, though. Where they had expected to find Hawke’s Ferelden miners once again quailed by what had been released by the latest cave-in, they found only corpses – some of which were being picked at by avid dragonlings – and the remains of what could only be seen as a massacre.

         Sebastian said a soft dirge as they tiptoed carefully through the carnage, and Aveline didn’t argue because it was so quiet as to be barely audible over the crackle of flames and the masticating jaws of the monsters. They reached the path down the mountain, and seemed to be in the clear when they all but tripped over one of the dragonlings that had been scouting what looked to be some wagon tracks.

         The battle did not go well.

         Both of them were unarmed, but armored. Well, at least dragonlings could not breathe fire on their own.

         Sebastian was quick, but he still took talons across his drawing arm as he managed to get a slash across it’s eye with a sharp rock he’d picked up somewhen. Aveline wanted to feel sympathy for him, but found it far more productive to latch an arm around the thing’s neck when it lunged at him. Then she did what any sane person would do.

         She proceeded to bash the overgrown snake’s head in with her fist.

         It took _forever._

         Who knew that there was armored plating on a dragonling’s head? Breaking through it was hard. It was long, it was tedious, and both of her sore arms felt like they would break. The body of the creature was writhing, and the thing was lashing out.

         In her peripheral vision, she could see Sebastian lunging in with that rock he had. Her arms turned to stone, and then to burning metal. The fight was dirty and painful and _annoying._ But between the two of them, they killed it. A slit throat and a bashed-in skull did in just about anything if you got the throat cutting part right.

         Aveline tried not to equate the desperation of the fight with the fields of Ostagar. It mostly worked, but only mostly.

         All the heroic jumping onto enemies and tearing them limb from limb, Aveline decided, she would leave to Hawke and Fenris. Aveline wondered how they did it. She tied up the wound on Sebastian’s arm before they began to limp their way down the mountain.

         “If this is another one of the whore’s practical jokes, when I get back to Kirkwall,” Aveline grumbled, “I’m going to string her up in the Chantry courtyard.”

         “I didn’t think Isabela had much care for this sort of thing,” Sebastian wheezed out. “Normally her pranks are rather harmless.”

         _“By her toes,”_ Aveline persisted, though she knew that the venom was only at the situation. Isabela was many things – many of those many things were dirty – but she wasn’t this sort of a backstabbing wretch. She’d come back with the Tome, after all.

         If she’d been paying more attention to where she was walking, she might have seen the rock was a bit loose.

         For a terrible moment she wobbled, and then the side of the mountain seemed to fall away from where her feet were supposed to be.

         Aveline was not the type to give up, but there seemed nothing to be done about this particular catastrophe. She threw an arm back in the direction of where she thought Sebastian ought to be, still hoping, but closed her eyes.

         The savage wrench to her arm was almost the most painful thing she had ever felt. It felt like they had finished that fight hours ago, and she still couldn’t feel her hands, but she could feel that yank. It was almost like her arm was being ripped out of its socket.

         Collapsing in a heap on top of Sebastian was preferable to the way she would have landed otherwise. He let out a grunting chuckle as they impacted, and lay flat beneath her.

         “Not how I ever would have pictured this,” he wheezed out.

         “That means you’ve pictured it,” Aveline replied. She didn’t, for the moment, have the strength to move.

         “I have always had an overactive imagination,” Sebastian said. “I can’t move you, you know.”

         “I can’t move me either.”

         “Do you think we’re far enough from the peak to rest?”

         Despite her words, Aveline used her good arm to push herself over enough so that she toppled off of Sebastian. “I think we’re going to, whether we are or not.”

         “Good plan,” Sebastian chuckled.  
 

*

   
         Feynriel did his best to keep drawing her back into the Fade. Either that, or she kept blacking out from the pain. It wouldn’t be unheard of, she had been stripped of her armor and was being whipped repeatedly by some nut job that thought she was a serious elf-sympathizer.

         So what if Merrill was a friend of hers?

         So what if Fenris was her lover?

         Neither of those relationships were specifically _because_ the two of them were elves. She wouldn’t change them, but given the circumstances she’d met the two of them in, she’d probably have befriended them both anyway.

         As far as Fenris was concerned, it wasn’t his body that had attracted her to him in the first place. Bethany had pointed out years ago that Fenris actually wasn’t her type. When it came to the physical makeup of a man, Elodie had always tended towards solid men, usually with an impressive amount of muscle.

         There was something else about Fenris that had drawn her in. The force of his will, perhaps, or the passion he showed in his convictions. Of course she had fantasized about him long before that first kiss, but that was his own fault. She wanted to know him, and he’d blocked any conversation and guarded his thoughts so tightly _for months_ that all she’d been left with was a strange fascination and a strong admiration for the warrior she couldn’t get words out of. He’d left her with his skill with a blade to admire, and his body.

         It certainly wasn’t a bad body.

         Elodie closed her eyes and thought of Fenris. She wondered if she’d be able to conjure up the image of him. She _was_ in the Fade just now, and though she knew that it took a mage’s power to shape the Fade, she tried nonetheless. It was better than wondering if the man with the whip was going to get bored of the torture and kill her.

         Something to concentrate on would be worthwhile, so she tried.

         Nothing happened.

         Wasn’t that just the luck?

         Then the Fade felt like it shifted somehow. Slumped over a twisted root of some sort, Elodie looked up to see Feynriel looking down at her.

         “I’d say good morning, but I don’t really know what time it is,” Elodie chuckled, putting her cheek on the root. She felt weak, even here, and lay on her stomach because her back hurt more than she could express in words. “Is there time in the Fade?”

         “You don’t look well,” Feynriel said. He touched her forehead and sighed dejectedly. “I’ve been… trying to heal you, but I’m afraid I’m not very good,” he admitted.

         “It’s alright, Feynriel,” Elodie said. It was nice not to be alone, at least. She couldn’t conjure Fenris, but at least she had a little company.

         “I want to help you, Hawke. You’ve done so much for me.” His tone sounded defeated.

         He sounded like Bethany had when she couldn’t fully heal the wound that Elodie took across her chest when they were children. Father hadn’t yet taught Bethany any healing spells, and what she was able to do by guessing was rough and had hurt. The only thing that had worked to calm Bethany down was getting her to do something else.

         “Do you know who it is that’s doing this?” Elodie asked.

         “No,” Feynriel sighed. “I can’t seem to find the one who’s ordering it. I’ve looked, but I can’t find him. I just don’t… I don’t know enough yet.”

         That was disheartening, to say the least. Elodie didn’t _say it,_ though, she knew better. Plus, an unbalanced Fade-shaper could call a demon or something on accident. “Well, do you know where I am?”

         Feynriel was quiet a moment, and then his hand moved up to brush her hair over her ear. _“You_ don’t know where you are, Hawke,” he said in that same dejected tone, as though it explained everything. “And there’s no one around you to give a clue.”

         “Am I in Kirkwall?”

         A frustrated noise came out of Feynriel. “I think so. Hawke, I-”

         “You are the first dream walker in an age, Feynriel,” Elodie said patiently, recalling how she’d had to soothe Bethany’s frustration when they were children. It was starting to hurt less thinking about her, after so many years, and the experience was certainly coming in handy at the moment. “The best traveled free mage in history, I’d wager. Stop telling me what you _can’t_ do, and start-”

         A wash of red-hot pain cut her words off. Feynriel’s face swam closer in her vision, and then it was gone. Feynriel and the wavy presence of the Fade disappeared as her eyes opened in the very real, very dark cave that she was chained in.

         It occurred to her then that she should have asked Feynriel if he could find any of her friends. He’d found her, if he could find one of them, maybe he could-

         Another lash of the whip against her back, and a sick, wet noise reached her ears. The place she held her rage was empty, just as it was each time she woke from the Fade. With it empty, the pain was more intense, and she couldn’t control her reactions as well. Whatever scarring Feynriel’s healing had closed over was ripped open anew, and the third strike was hard enough that Elodie’s body couldn’t hang still and take it. This time the pain was so bad that she surged to her feet, fisting her hands against the shackles and yanking savagely on the chains.

         Behind her there was a startled exclamation from her captor.

         Then the light shifted. The shackles started to glow, and a pain worse than the lashing coursed through her. Elodie dropped to her knees. Something was wrong. She couldn’t feel the pain of the impact on the stone. And then all the pain started to leave her, and she couldn’t tell if it was Feynriel, or that place she welled up rage to unleash in battle, or if she was just too tired to deal with it anymore.

         It wouldn’t be an unreasonable conclusion for her spirit, her heart to have given up. The edges of her heart had died years ago, each time she lost one of her family members it was like fire scorched the edges of her heart. It was that hardened edge that drove the killing blow to the Arishok. It was that hardened edge that bore up under each new loss and pain and disappointment.

         There had been a few years of good somewhere in all of this, and that was what kept the center of her heart alive. It was the center that sustained her when it was darkest. That’s where Fenris was. He’d taken up angry residence there years ago, like he’d claimed a territory, and he helped to keep the last of her heart alive.

         A snarl came out of her captor. The lash snapped against her back again, and the pain lanced through her.

         Fenris was not here. Here there was only pain and blood. The pain might go away from time to time, but the blood was her own. It didn’t take a healer’s knowledge to know she couldn’t lose too much more of it without her life going with it.

         Her whole body felt heavy, strung up from the chains and dangling from the manacles she was bound in.

         When she closed her eyes, she got the impression of Feynriel’s face. He must have tried to keep her in the Fade, to keep her separate from the pain, but there was only so much he could do. Elodie was grateful Feynriel even tried, but every time he pulled her into the Fade something felt strange. Each time she opened her eyes it took longer and longer to make sense of what she was seeing.

         Even that little tug just now had her mind reeling. Everything was dark, even with her eyes open, and she couldn’t tell if she were truly in the waking world or if she was still in transition until a hand took her by the hair and forced her head back.

         No face came into view. All she could see was the dark stone at the top of the cave.

         “So, then, Champion,” the same raspy, nasal voice said, “have you figured out why you’re here?”

         Something pressed against her back. The pain of the touch was so intense that it was nauseating. Elodie pressed her eyes closed and swallowed against the dryness that felt as though it went all the way down her throat. At the angle her head was held, it was impossible to get her voice above a rasp, but she rasped out, “Because this is how… you get your jollies?”

         Her hair was pulled viciously, and she felt some of it rip out. He was close behind her, now. Whatever had touched her back pressed into it. She tried to focus on making out the shape of it in an effort not to scream. Despite the agony of that touch, she got the impression it was a hand.

         Fingers pressed against her wounds, tightening as the grating voice of her captor went on, “You … misguided cretin, you couldn’t possibly understand. You’re _Fereldan,_ after all, which may be worse than being an elf-lover.”

         That was the second time her captor had called her an elf-lover. Elodie thought of Fenris, and hated the sound of the truth used as a slur. Her hair was released, and her head sagged forward. The hand went away, and she was able to breathe again. She gasped air in to make up for what breath she had been holding to forestall any screaming.

         “You’re barely human and yet somehow you managed to get made Champion of Kirkwall,” her captor said, voice thick with disdain.

         “Killing… the Arishok… does tend… to cause a… bit of a to-do,” Elodie panted out.

         “You always were full of yourself.”

         That voice. Why was it so familiar?

         Elodie was not given time to think more on it.

         Her captor had taken his whip back up, and began again on her back.  
 

*


End file.
